#Say you're an artist and left some work or materials behind | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

titleknown · 2 years

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/monsterkissed/697364310418227200/watching-the-ai-art-debate-thing-on-twitter-is-a

Thoughts on this post? (If this appears twice, thats because i sent it twice to reduce the likelihood of tumblr eating it)

Well, I agree with their view that the way it's tied to emotional underlying reactions is not helping their case, and that it does need to focus on material; practical policy.

But... I don't think forcing AI models to only use PD art and license all copyrighted art they use for their models is good policy, and to bring it up in good faith to @monsterkissed who presumably is annoyed at hearing this Discourse specifically on the notes of their original post, I'd like to elaborate on why.

Specifically, forcing PD stuff or stuff you own to be the only stuff you're allowed to use for AI models would not affect megacorps using this tech to replace artists at all.

Because, places like Disney and Warner still own reams of art copyrights, which they could freely plunder to train their own models. For examples of how that might happen, see also, the franken-CG versions of Star Wars characters and the use of James Earl Jones' voice that Disney is doing. But independent artists would only have access to much weaker tools in this status quo.

So it would mean only megacorps could use these tools at their full power, while independent artists are left with scraps. Which seems counter-productive at best to avoiding megacorps replacing artists with AI artists.

Expanding copyrights to an artist's style would do some terrible things to art too, as the lawsuit over Blurred Lines and the talk about that and the follow-up waves of lawsuits have shown.

And if one makes artists legally liable for the art program they use, that could be its own nightmare; like say; if you use an out-of-date Adobe product, or get attacked by a copyright troll for using abandonware.

Heck, even with regards to money, due to the inherent size of AI art pools, artists would likely only get a fraction of a penny if that in terms of royalties if such a licensing scheme were in place.

And we've seen examples of how the approach of "everything must be properly licensed" can backfire enormously, look at the story behind sampling.

In Chokepoint Capitalism (Which I urge you to read) Cory Doctorow talks about how sampling in music as a widespread artistic tool basically died when artists were forced to license every single clip they used, because things became so cost-prohibitive it was impossible.

And, while it started with a few windfalls for legacy artists being paid for use of their clips, that was extremely short-lived, because corps started taking sampling rights in their contracts too, thusly this mandating of licensing ended up helping basically nobody but the megacorps ended up better off.

I could easily see such a nightmare scenario applied to AI art if they went the copyright maximalist route.

My policy view... well, it's complicated. Let it be noted that I'm a copyright minimalist, and have been for years, and I think that copyright is too damn long and too damn much, more a tool of corporate monopoly than creator protection at its current scale, and it needs to be reduced for the good of us all.

I actually believe it should be based in the opposite of copyright expansion, IE expanding the commons, because if it draws from the shared pool of public art; then it should give back.

I think that, while AI artists have pointed out there are problems with raw AI art being auto-PD, as is currently the legal status-quo, I think that would probably be a mutually preferable compromise to forced copyright nickel-and-diming, if only because it would make it harder for the corpos to exploit and allow AI artists to keep working on their medium.

There's also policies that one could take to make it more difficult for megacorps to exploit AI art to directly take artists jobs, a couple of which were suggested here, and I think that makes more sense as a policy thread to tug on.

And finally... god, we need more arts funding. Like, here in the US Republicans basically murdered it years ago, and we could do so much good by expanding it, especially in new ways geared towards the online artists that the system seems to have underserved over more traditional gallery-style/public works artists.

Heck, we could probably advocate for more Guaranteed Basic Income For Artists programs like Ireland is doing, if only to bring it into the Overton window in this "nice things don't get to politically happen ever" country!

So yeah! In not-very-brief my thoughts!

#art #ai art #ai art discourse #the discourse

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bells-of-black-sunday · 9 months

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[ dressing room ] + [ mirror ] - Tarhos and Haru, modern

Kinky Scenario's | Accepting

[ dressing room ] our muses have some fun in a dressing room together

[ mirror ] our muses have sex in front of a mirror

To say Tarhos desperately needed a guiding hand in the fashion department would be an understatement. Packs of five t-shirts for cheap, sweatpants and jeans were all that he ever wore. All that he ever needed, not like he was going out to fancy restaurants every night even if he did have tailored suits for when work demanded such an occasion. It wasn't like he didn't have the money either, he did. He's not a material person, he only buys what he needs, but Haru seemed determined to give him "rizz" whatever that meant.

The dressing room was bigger than he expected it to be, but maybe high end stores were just like that- after all it was Robin's recommendation and Robin never bought anything he wears in public for cheap. Always dressed like he had money. Yet the moment Haru followed him in he knew that mischievous smirk when he saw it. And even now when he had gone through two out of the five outfits his boyfriend had picked out and he approved of those small hands never left his waist.

Plush lips pressing a kiss into his shoulder knowing fully well there wasn't much space for either of them to back up, "Haru..." He sighed, "What are you doing?" "Having fun pretty boy." There was that nick name, the same one that never failed to rise at least the haze of a blush to his cheeks and words he knew very well the intention behind. All he could do was sigh as the hands lowered to his strong thighs, "We're in public-" He hisses in a whisper, but he's not actually mad. Just embarrassed. Embarrassment only spurred on by how he could see himself in the mirror.

In his underwear- exposed, but the artist had wanted to watch him try things on to give a second opinion. Yet...despite the embarrassment he never stopped his hands that tugged down the waistband of his boxers to fully expose him to the cold air of the store. He could hear Haru chuckle as his dexterous fingers started to stroke his length, "You're so cute baby boy, you never get to see your face. Come on-" one of his hands held his jaw firm to stare at himself in the mirror, "You can keep your eyes open for me, can't you?"

So many pet names he worried about someone hearing and yet despite all that, the shame, the embarrassment- Tarhos couldn't deny that at least in this moment he was enjoying the attention. Enjoying the way he could watch his boyfriend watch him with such love and adoration it made him forget about things for a while. Even as two fingers slipped past his lips and played with his tongue to coat them and the simple request to lean against the wall forced him closer to his own reflection- he was enjoying himself.

He enjoyed the way those two fingers scissored him open, the way Haru whispered quiet words of praise over how good he was being, everything about it. Tarhos almost even whined when his hand left his weeping cock only to be told to be patient and he was. Even as the fingers retreated from his body and he heard Haru's clothes shift behind him. And his voice met his ears again in nothing more than the same whisper they'd been using yet somehow it sounded louder than anything he had ever heard before- "You want to ride me pretty boy? Give a good show for the mirror~"

And even as his face flushed he pulled off his boxers completely and sat back on his boyfriends hips feeling his hands return to his waist as he worked himself down his sock until his skin met his pants. At least he was wearing a condom- the only saving grace for his dignity. His hips moved slowly at first gripping the bench inside like his life depended on it as soft kisses were pressed along his strong back. It felt way too good to be doing this right now- maybe work had left him pent up, he wasn't sure.

His boyfriends hands returned to his cock stroking him as he whispered for him to speed up- he knew they couldn't drag it out. But fuck it felt so good in that moment- it looked so good in that moment. Watching the way their bodies slotted together doing their damndest to cum quick and they did. Tarhos first, his mess spilling over Haru's fingers as he body grasped around him trying to drag him deeper. Haru followed not long after basking there for a moment before he cleaned his hand off and patted his boyfriend to get up.

Tarhos picked up his boxers putting them back on before he heard Haru's words again- "Try the fitted shirt next, it'll look better on your figure."

#ic #a path of destruction (knight)#verse; modern #lemon #cw; exhibitionism #these two make me feral idk

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manogirl · 10 months

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Monsters, by Claire Dederer

Last night I finished Monsters, by Claire Dederer.

To say that I was blown away is understating it. I have SO many highlights in my ebook that I can't possibly include them all here, but I do want to pull out some of my faves. Because the thing is, this book sees right through us. This book IS a book about fandom. It's a book about loving art made by people who seem unloveable. It's a book about being a bad person. It's a book about loving a bad person. It's a book about loving art.

(As Dederer concludes, most of us do in fact love monstrous people. She's talking about our family members and friends and loved ones, not artists, but as she points out--all of the art monsters have loved ones too.)

There are no answers in the book, so if you're looking for either permission to cut a bunch of art out of your life OR permission to keep loving art made by monsters, you won't find it, not really. But you will FEEL things, and that's another one of Dederer's theses: this is, at its core, about feelings.

Anyway, go read it, it's fantastic. After the jump, bits from my highlights--and there are a lot! But I promise they're worth reading. (Disclaimer: I don't, like, agree with all of these quotes, right? But for one reason or another, these words struck me.)

We don't always love who or what we're supposed to love. Woody Allen himself famously quoted Emily Dickinson: "The heart wants what it wants." Auden said it more nicely, as he said everything more nicely: "The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews." The desires of the audience's heart are as crooked as corkscrews. We continue to love what we ought to hate. We can't seem to turn the love off.

After all, a great work of art is supposed to bring us a feeling. And yet when I say Manhattan makes me feel urpy, a man says, No, not that feeling. You're having the wrong feeling.

Simply being told Allen's history shouldn't matter doesn't achieve the objective of making it not matter.

When you're having a moral feeling, self-congratulation is never far behind. You are setting your emotion in a bed of ethical language, and you are admiring yourself doing it. We are governed by emotion, emotion around which we arrange language. The transmission of our virtue feels extremely important, and strangely exciting.

My feminism, which was in essence a liberal ideology, was coming into conflict with my increasingly leftist politics, my growing desire to look at a bigger picture of where and how material power coalesces.

A monster, in my mind, was an artist who could not be separated from some dark aspect of his or her biography.

We act like our preferences matter, because that is the job late capitalism has given us. And here's the funny thing--our choices and our preferences do matter, because something has to.

We each bring our subjective experience to art and to love. If I were to give an exhaustive list of monsters and tell you my response to them, I would be acting out a kind of falsehood. I would be suggesting there is a correct answer in each particular case. I would be telling you what to think, and, in telling you what to think, I would be telling you what to do. And I don't want to enshrine my own subjectivity in that particular way; don't want to cloak it in the garb of authority. Consuming a piece of art is two biographies meeting: the biography of the artist that might disrupt the viewing of the art; the biography of the audience member that might shape the viewing of the art. This occurs in every case.

Remember that male critic, who told me over dinner, that I really ought to judge Manhattan on its aesthetic merits? The idea that his own experience shaped his own response never occurred to him. He left that to me, the former girl. His own subjectivity was entirely invisible to him; a ghost in the critical machine.

This tension--between what I've been through as a woman and the fact that I want to experience the freedom and beauty and grandeur and strangeness of great art--this is at the heart of the matter. It's not a philosophical query; it's an emotional one.

I guess all of this is a long way of saying: monsters are just people.

In light of all this, I came to see the question "what do we do with the art of monstrous men?" in a new way. The initial thought of how to take responsibility is to boycott the art--the liberal solution of simply removing one's money and one's attention. But does that really make a difference?

Given the role we inhabit, it's natural for us to try to solve injustice and inequity through our individual choices. This feels like a great idea, but unfortunately it doesn't really work. "The problem is that the model of individual responsibility assumed by most versions of ethics" can have "little purchase on the behavior of Capital or corporations."

Liberalism wants you to turn your gaze away from the system and focus instead on the importance of your choices. In late-stage capitalism, this individual choice becomes irreparably soldered to consumer choice. What you consume is what you are. You are, after all, your fandom.

In other words: There is not some correct answer. You are not responsible for finding it. Your feeling of responsibility is a shibboleth, a reinforcement of your tragically limited role as a consumer. There is no authority and there should be no authority. You are off the hook. You are inconsistent. You do not need to have a grand unified theory about what to do about Michael Jackson. You are a hypocrite, over and over. You love Annie Hall but can barely stand to look at a painting by Picasso. You are not responsible for solving this unreconciled contradiction. In fact, you will solve nothing by means of your consumption; the idea that you can is a dead end. The way you consume art doesn't make you a bad person or a good one. You'll have to find some other way to accomplish that.

#many many quotes #monster #claire dederer #monster by claire dederer #book notes #fandom #on fandom

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yostresswritinggirl · 3 years

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If you're plate isn't too full, can I request a couple of fluffy hc's about Albedo with a photographer! s/o? Like, his s/o enjoys taking pictures of the environment and etc, and even take pictures of Albedo whenever he just does stuff, and Albedo enjoys sketching then whenever they just do a whole picture spree- they even exchange pictures too

Yes, my plate is too full and I'm confused why you guys don't see the request closed thingy in my description. But does it look like I care? No, I miss writing for Albedo and you're getting Albedo NOW-

Sepia Times

Albedo with a Photographer!S/O headcanons/scenarios... (event masterlist)

Ever since Fontaine released their newest device called Kamera, you had been so adamant in getting ahold of one that you ended up going on a travel spree to the said nation. Not even waiting for the shipment to Mondstadt, you left a quickly written note of your whereabouts before you left.

Spontaneous as ever, Albedo thought to himself as his grip on the note tightens with worry.

Luckily, three days later, you hailed from the Hydro Archon's land with your newest prized possession in hand. Triumphant and giddy, both of your lives changed drastically from there.

Albedo first and foremost, almost dismantled your Kamera. Actually he may have already done so behind your back, he was just caught the last time. He was really curious of its machinations and wanted to reverse engineer it.

He only ever lived because he was fast enough to reassemble it and show you that it still works. If not, you were already charging at him to throw hands. You did not travel for three days just for the Kamera to be broken. Whether he found what he was looking for or not, he's not allowed to touch it until he gets his own when the supply reaches Mondstadt.

Knowing your excitement, Albedo takes a sudden day off to accompany you in your Kamera spree, his own canvas and easel under his arm to also channel his artistic energy.

In just a day you managed to take 20 pictures, about to run out of film in just a day. Everytime you snap a picture, you gravitate to where Albedo is stationed to show off what you got like a crow and its shiny rocks. He finds it very endearing, stating his honest honey-covered opinion that makes you overjoyed enough to energize you to snap another, better picture.

The Alchemist sees the appeal of the Kamera and how immediate the replication of the image is. But he still glorifies the art of painting. He may not be able to capture constantly moving subjects but he can capture any detail he wants emphasized unlike the limited rasterization of a photo like that.

He watches you from afar as you skip over to different places and objects, face blooming with wonder as you position your device to snap. He dons a smile when you pull out the photo and wait for the image to materialize, and produce a chuckle when you sprint over to him to show the product. It's like your routine you developed in just a day.

So at times when he needs it the most, he will steal borrow your Kamera to snap a quick picture of something fast moving that he needs to observe immediately or wish to sketch/paint in detail in the future. One of the photos he had hidden for himself had a picture of you in your natural photographer environment as you dash around to look for a scene to capture while you wait.

What's it for? Well he made it into a more intricate painting during his spare time, presenting it to you with the little image taped at the top right corner. It was so beautiful that when outsiders were to see it after they were granted to access his office/laboratory, they always ask for the price for it. Something he adamantly refuses with the coldest glare the Alchemist can make. The negotiations usually end there.

Whenever he was far and you couldn't follow, like Dragonspine for example (the Kamera was still in development so cold temperatures might risk both the device and the processing), you always send him a picture for his thoughts. Either by asking Sucrose, Timaeus or the Traveler if they were en route to his camp, of course.

As you send one to him daily, Albedo started to look forward to your little mail every time. They range from very beautiful sights he hasn't seen before, images of the people of Mond who looks to be greeting him, or of you and the things that would remind him of you.

He keeps a haphazardly strewn journal for it, and in his camp was a board of his favorite picks, and all images of you are tacked on it. The Traveler enjoys watching his cold teal eyes light up whenever he brings the daily image, watching the picture board grow as Albedo tacks the latest one in with obvious pride and joy.

When he comes back to Mond, he brings with him his most beautiful piece from Dragonspine. You'd know it's special because everything is painted in detail, even the most unimportant parts of it. It's his gift for your little photo exchange and you have it put up on wall somewhere in your house.

When he gets his own Kamera, it was his turn to drag you to his photography spree. A little one-sided competition happens between you two where you try to one up the quality of his pictures, sometimes successful and sometimes you don't really... understand what he's doing, as he captures the strangest images.

Albedo uses his solar isotoma when you want to use it for better angles. Very supportive, as you'd hear a snap from beneath as you position your own Kamera.

The whole of Mond muses at both of your antics; as you two would most likely do the finger frame thingy impulsively when seeing something worth the attention, the people around you would chuckle at how cute you two looked, focused on your own little world.

He always gifts you extra films or anything related to photography when he can. Since he barely has time to go out sometimes, he has many backup gifts in bulk to whip out if ever he wants to pamper you with his material affection. Albedo is hyperaware of your hyperfixation and will always bring films the moment you run out, like foresight.

You can barely understand Albedo, despite the closeness you two had, he was still an enigma in most occasions. This was one of them. He had been binging on photography lately and everytime you look through the photos he captured, it didn't really make sense. The most random pictures that you wouldn't even dare use a film on strewn here and there, sometimes the photo is even cut off, and you'd think it was a mistake until he started organizing them in a system only he knows.

When you finally gathered up the courage to ask what all of it was about for, you were given a smile as cryptic as his album.

But as he pulls your hand with an excitement you've only seen when his chemical solution produces the expected buff, you somehow deduced that today would be the day you'd find out what the heck he was up to.

"It took longer than I expected it to be," he says as he starts unlocking a room in the Knights of Favonius HQ that you've never been in before, "but the end result was worth it."

Your confusion only grows as you were met with a face full of hanging pictures, most of it you recognize. Leaning over some and looking up on the higher ones, the amount of string and the confusing way they were set up, amazes you still with the amount of effort he had been using on such a big project.

Your untrained eyes loosely guess around 1000 films used for this.

The glass double doors that makes it way to the balcony opens loudly behind you. "Come here," you turn to see Albedo's silhouette open his arms against the setting sun behind him. "You're supposed to look at it from this distance." His arms engulfs you gently when you moved over, sending a gentle squeeze before he turns you back around to see the hanging pictures.

You gasp.

The depth and the splash of colors from this distance, aided with the sun, turned the hanging collage into an expertly placed collage as it shows you the bigger picture: a mold of your face of the first sketch Albedo made when you first met each other. The angles and colors measured to the dot to capture and replicate your beauty.

You feel his lips kiss the back of your head as you stared in awe.

Impromptu Albedo fluff yey

@albaedhoe @struggljng @heisenwurst @moaa @dandelion-dreams @witchsungie @lehra @zelos-simp @legionqueensav @snackgod @rxsalinee @cala-ran @wind-wheel @lilydewi22 @yellowflowre @traveler-lumine @nonniechan @creation-magician @hanniejji

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #Albedo x Reader #genshin impact Albedo #exile.goblet #exile.flower #sojourner specials #gender neutral #fluffyyyyy #genshin impact headcanons

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risoris · 3 years

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Do you think we can bring back ROTBTD in 2021?

(Oh wow I mulled over this ask for quite some time. I hope this is somewhat helpful!)

If by "bringing back" you mean restoring the crossover to something close to its former popularity, then no, I honestly don't think we can. I think more than just a fandom, part of what made RotBTD so well-known back then is because it got picked up as a tumblr trend, and trends move on. Not to mention with the lack of new source material, the possibility of coming up with inspirations for fanworks (something that creators need, and i feel like this is particularly harder for crossovers) as well as topics to talk about are pretty limited, so it's understandable that most people who participate decided to leave for good after having their share of fun. This is just the way things are.

On a brighter note, it's not like the fandom is actually dead, far from it. The fans are very much still around; there are those who never left (salute to you guys, seriously), those who return (like me!), and those who get into this old fandom late. Discussions are still happening. New fanworks are still being made; lots of it! And though the traffic might be slower, I think a lot of people would agree with me that there's been something like a fandom revival recently.

And this is just my personal opinion, but I do think that what we have right now is even better than what we had back then. The community is much more chill. There’s a deeper appreciation and understanding of the four franchises as well as the characters that the earlier fandom frankly lacked. People are respectful about shipping. I can go on.

However, I understand that it could still feel less lively than the RotBTD fandom that you remember and wish to bring back. And I’m afraid I only have one advice to assuage that: try to reach out and engage more with the current community.

Look for people who like the same characters/ships/AUs that you like and follow them. Reblog fanarts that you like and maybe even tell the artist what you like about their work. Comment on fics you enjoyed and maybe share it with others that might appreciate it too. Send asks to folks whose headcanons you’d like to see more of. Maybe join one of the discord servers and hang out there. Or if you haven’t found a particular thing you’d like to see, make a new post and just talk about it!

Like I said before, many of us are still around and kicking, and I think it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that everyone here is open to having another person to talk to about our interests. So if what you're looking for is a livelier experience, simply chat and interact with other fans! After all, having like-minded friends/acquaintances/mutuals of some kind helps a lot in making fannish experience more fulfilling.

oh and please don’t read this as an imperative to be sociable, but rather as an assurance that it's okay to be more present in the fandom space!! If the idea makes you uncomfortable, there’s always the option to use the anon feature or only pop into the fandom tag once in a while. Just do what feels right for you, and remember that just because it's a smaller fandom now doesn't mean you can't have fun.

(Also a little off-topic but i feel like we often forget just how big BIG rotbtd was. It was like a giant stone soup collaboration across all types of media: fanfic, fanart, fancomic, gifsets, edits, RP blogs, fan videos, fan songs, animation, cosplays, fanzines, etc. It felt like everyone was doing it and pitched in with something new or at least knew about it and passed it around. Of course it would feel a lot emptier when we're being compared to that.)

I’m aware I pretty much just assumed the intent behind your question and ended up babbling here lmao so feel free to message me again and correct me if I misinterpret your ask in any way!

#asks #rotbtd #rotbtd talk #long post

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oikawaplssteponme · 3 years

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PART 4 | previously: part 3 | masterlist

pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x fem! reader

ratings/warnings: swearing, mention of violence but there isn’t any

synopsis: When UA’s hot heads, Katsuki Bakugou and you, are forced to put your hatred for each other aside and plan the third year Prom, things end up getting a little heated...

a/n: hi friends!! okay so this part is a little longer but it’s important for what’s to come ;) because i just couldn’t help myself, there’s a little song reference in there, hopefully you catch it,, maybe it’s important *wink wink* anyways, taglist is open so just lmk if you’d like to be added 🖤 enjoy xx

•

Four: it’s what’s on the inside that counts

It’s been over 2 weeks since your fight with Bakugou. The two of you haven’t spoken since, leaving your classmates a bit nervous. You were stubborn and so was he. The only problem was, neither of you really remembered why you were fighting in the first place. You two fought often, that was obvious, but something about this last fight felt different. As if you and Bakugou genuinely wanted to hurt each other. In the past, it was mainly for your own satisfaction just to fight someone. You and Bakugou had disliked each other for so long that you couldn’t even think of a solid reason for why you hated him. You soon came to realize that you barely knew anything about Katsuki Bakugou...and that bothered you.

“LISTEN UP! Prom tickets will be on sale after school today in the common area. You can also buy them at the door but just know they’ll cost more. So I recommend you have your money ready and get in line early because I only have a certain amount for presale. Thank you that’s all!” You announced to your class. “Oh and pass this information onto the other classes please!”

You hopped down from the desk where you were standing and brushed your skirt down.

“Do you need help setting up?” asked Deku. You looked over at Bakugou, who was supposed to be helping you but since the two of you weren’t on speaking terms, that wasn’t really an option.

“Uh sure that’d be great,” you said.

“I’ll lend a hand as well,” chimed in Iida. You laughed.

“Guys all I need help with is moving a table and a few boxes,” you explained.

“We are happy to help!”

You, Deku, and Iida set up the ticket selling table. You placed the poster of the dance in front of the table. Izuku grabbed the box of tickets and looked through them.

“Y/N did you make these?” He asked. Your face got warm.

“Uh yeah, it’s not a big deal though,” you insisted.

“It’s excellent artistic work Y/N! You should be proud!” smiled Iida.

“Yeah it’s super cool!”

“Thanks guys,” you gushed. You sat down at the table and pulled out your notebook and pen.

“Alright! Who wants the honor of buying the first ticket?”

“You should, after all you planned the dance,” said Deku. You smiled.

“I guess you’re right.” You picked up the first ticket, wrote your name next to the #1 spot in your notebook, and put your money in the cash box.

“Okay. Who’s next?”

The line of people never seemed to end. You got in the groove of writing down their name, number, and putting away the money pretty quickly.

“Hey Momo! Uh you’re number 35,” you said to your classmate.

“Thanks, here you go!” She smiled, handing you the money.

“Y/N!!” cheered Mina, “wait is this the theme?” Mina pointed to the design on the tickets.

“Uh yeah it is,” you smiled.

“‘My Emotions Feel Like Explosions When You’re Around’,” read aloud Deku.

“I LOVE IT!! It’s super cute and honestly I would expect nothing less from you and Bakugou!”

Right. Bakugou.

“Uh yeah. I'm excited to see how it turns out once we get all the decorations.”

“Do any of you have dates yet?” asked Denki as he paid.

“Wow Denki is that your only concern?” laughed Jirou.

“I haven’t even thought about that,” said Iida.

“Planning on asking anyone?” You asked aloud.

“I am…” mumbled Deku.

“Wow Izuku wonder who?” said Kirishima sarcastically.

“Who are you gonna ask, Deku?” You asked. No one said anything. You turned around and saw all your friends staring at you.

“What…it was just a question…”

“Wait, you're like genuinely asking?” laughed Denki, “I thought it was obvious.” Deku hit Denki’s arm.

“It’s fine, it will be better if it’s a surprise anyway,” said Deku.

“Do you want someone to ask you, Y/N?” asked Sero, handing you his money. You put the cash in a box.

“I honestly don’t care. I wasn’t even planning on going to Prom before Aizawa forced me to plan it,” you admitted.

“Well we are all glad you’ll be there,” smiled Iida.

Your friends had all gone back to their dorms after a bit. There were still about 20 people in line for tickets and you were exhausted.

“Cafeteria closes soon dumbass,” said someone. You whipped around. You groaned.

“Well Katsuki, I’m kinda busy if you can’t tell,” you huffed.

“Go eat. I’ll finish up here,” he said. Your eyes grew.

“Wait what-”

“Go on, you only have 15 minutes before they close dinner. I've got this,” he insisted. You got up from your chair.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“It can’t be that hard if you figured it out.”

You rolled your eyes

“Whatever. Just pick up when you’re done.” You began to walk down to the cafeteria.

Two weeks of not talking to me and that’s all he has to say?

“Grabbing some dinner?” called Iida behind you. You smiled.

“Yeah , Bakugou is finishing up the ticket sale.”

“Nice. I’ll join you.”

“Thanks Iida.”

“Cold soba?” questioned Iida, “You never get your soba cold.” You looked down at your tray of food.

“I guess Todoroki converted me,” you joked. Iida raised a brow.

“Alright Y/N, what is it? We both know you hate cold food,” he said. You picked at your soba.

“I’m fine honestly,” you mumbled.

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Bakugou, would it?” You whipped your head to look at Iida.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?”

“That’s more like it!” He smiled. You chuckled.

“Well would it?” He asked. You shrugged.

“I guess this whole dance is stressing me out. Bakugou and I haven’t been very productive lately ,” you admitted. Iida sighed.

“Well this might be a stretch but you could try to make peace with him.” You groaned.

“I’m not making peace with that angry pomeranian until he apologizes.”

“Why can’t you just apologize?”

“BECAUSE I-I, I don’t know. My own stupid pride I guess.”

“You two need to overcome your differences eventually. Who knows, you guys might have more in common than you think,” smiled Iida.

“You’re the worst, you know that,” you joked.

“Wait really?”

“Iida…”

After dinner, you laid in your dorm room, staring up at the ceiling. You knew you should get some of the planning done but you also would rather just forget about the stupid dance. After about 10 minutes of contemplating, you headed down to the basement.

As you walked down the stairs, you remembered that Bakugou still had your notebook. You went down anyway, hoping to get some work done on your laptop instead. Much to your surprise, the door was propped open. You took a deep breath and prepared yourself for what could be behind the door.

“Hey Bakugou…” your voice trailed off as you saw that no one else was in the room.

He must’ve left the door open so I wouldn’t ask him for the keys.

You set down your things and sat down on one of the tables. You pulled out your laptop.

“I figured I’d find you here,” A raspy voice said. You looked up to see none other than Katsuki Bakugou, holding your notebook.

“Oh hi. I just thought I’d get some work done,” you explained.

“How’d you get in?”

“Uh you left the door open,” you explained. Bakugou huffed. He took a seat at the same table as you, setting down your notebook.

“Here dumbass.” Bakugou threw something on you and it landed on your head.

“What the-” You grabbed the soft material off of your head. Your eyes grew.

“Katsuki-”

“You said I owed you a new shirt, so here it is,” he said. You looked at the brand new t-shirt, a smile on your face.

“Yeah well I didn’t think you’d actually buy me one…”

“I mean I did rip your other shirt pretty badly. I-uh-I’m sorry about that.” Your eyes widened.

“Did you just say you’re sorry?”

“Yeah and I’m not saying it again.” he huffed.

“Bakugou I’m sorry too,” you said. Bakugou tilted his head.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I guess for everything. Well, maybe not everything because I don’t regret kicking your ass for 3 years one bit but I am sorry for that fight the other day. I almost killed you,” you explained nervously.

“Key word ‘almost’. I guess I almost did too,” he joked. You let out a nervous chuckle.

“Here’s the thing Bakugou, I don’t know anything about you yet I hate you with every ounce of my body. I guess I want to hate you for a reason.”

“What the hell does that mean, nerd?” He questioned. Your face got warm.

“You know how they say, ‘it’s what’s on the inside that counts’? Well,I want to hate you for what’s on the inside,” you laughed. Bakugou raised a brow.

“And what about you? The only thing I know about you is that you’ve got a short temper and your shirts rip easily. I barely know you either…”

He was right. Probably the only person who knew anything remotely deep about you was Iida, and even that was still somewhat surface level. You didn’t pick UA to get too comfortable with your classmates, even if you were friends, since in the real world you would be competing for the number one Hero spot. Maybe that’s why most of them were intimidated by you.

You patted on the top of the table, hinting for Bakugou to sit with you. He groaned and joined you on the table.

“This is stupid,” he mumbled. You rolled your eyes.

“Come on just try. And just to clarify, we are doing this for research purposes only. I’m convinced by the end of this I’ll still want to rip your head off 24/7,” you said. Bakugou nodded.

“Yeah I mean not like that could change.”

“Exactly. Okay so you first. What is it that makes Katsuki Bakugou a horrible pain in my ass?” You smiled sarcastically. Bakugou chuckled quietly.

“What do you want to know, dumbass?”

•

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#willow.🌸#bakugou x you #katsuki bakugō #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bnha bakugou #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki x y/n #mha katsuki #bakugou katuski x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha katsuki x reader #katsuki x you #my hero academia #hot heads.🌸

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dreamsister81 · 3 years

Text

Jeff and MI:

By age, you fit in the G.I.T generation, but you obviously are not one of them...

These facilities are a mystery to me. There they tell you only one thing: hurry up! This leads you nowhere, afterwards your own children run away from you. Through these trainings you get to know women, you get to know men, music is inoculated into people who have no feeling for it; then they can only scare other people or insult them...

I was in this terrible place too, by the way-G.I.T That was a complete waste of time, apart from the theoretical lessons and the friends that I had there. Otherwise: an absolute wrong decision.

How long have you studied there?

One year, the normal program. They give you tons of material, you have to absorb everything, you practice, you are tested and you go to the next course. An intensive support with development is simply not possible. I did so many things: theory, single string technique, jazz class, rock class, all sorts of genres. My friend John was teaching bass there, and he once said that there is not a single teacher at the institute who says to the students, "OK, you're learning all this stuff here now, you're learning how to entertain people and you're learning to learn. But do you even know that there is no one in the universe other than yourself who plays the music you play? " John left the school then. For me it was all a joke that cost me $ 3,900. People interested in music should take private lessons somewhere, start a band, do something with people who like them and have what it takes. These schools are a scene in their own right, a very small, secluded world-the music, on the other hand, is gigantic and open. If you don't notice it, you miss a lot of magic, pain, development...(thinks) and rock! Apart from Paul Gilbert, there was no one there who really rocked. Session musicians are bred there; and at the end of the year you get a piece of paper that says, "Now you have the skills to become a professional musician." Well, congratulations! And then you look for jobs and play what other people want. But that's not all the music, there's something else isn't there? Where's the music coming from? From your own head or stomach, or the concepts of the people you work for?-Gitarre & Bass, October, 1995

I had a friend named John Humphrey. I went to this really crappy guitar school for a year, and he used to teach there, he was a bass teacher. And then he left, and we ended up being roommates later on, after I graduated. This is the kind of school where you give them a shitload of money in order to spend a year learning their curriculum.

What was it, G.I.T. (Guitar Institute of Technology in Los Angeles)?

Yeah, it was G.I.T.. They give you their curriculum, and it's not too comprehensive, but it's just enough, and then you can [snaps his fingers] move on to the next thing. And pretty soon you have all this shit inside you and then they give you this paper that says you have what it takes to be a professional musician.

It's a rock-oriented thing, isn't it?

In the end, I think, the only true product of that kind of learning is to get you gigs on the studio circuit and to get you gigs on the session guy circuit.

So, Lee Ritenour went there or something?

G.I.T. was started by Howard Roberts, the guy who played the wah-wah guitar on the theme to Shaft. And this other guy named Pat Hayes. I don't know. It just seemed like a racket, really. John said a lot of things to me that stuck in my mind. He said that there was nobody who stopped you, sat you in a room and said, okay, we have all these artists that you're learning the licks from, you have your guitar heroes, your virtuoso lust objects. But there's nobody who can make the kind of music you can make now except for you. And you can make it now. You don't even have to know how to go fast. And that makes all the sense to me in the world. It's also kind of an unseen process, that concept, originality. It's like that in all the education systems; there's never any real...identity education, self-generative identity art sort of thing, to be yourself. If everybody in Melbourne had a Wurlitzer organ and had the passion to sing something or make something, you'd have hundreds of thousands of different styles, if they were coming exactly from only their DNA, only their makeup, and their emotional percepts, their idea about what art is. You could have way-removed genres from what is already accepted, avante-garde country-rock-punk-folk-whatever. It's unlimited. But for some reason, the conventions always take over and there's a very ready and powerful formula to step into...

Those are the type of [formula-derived] players who can say, "Well, I was listening to the radio in 1967 and I heard the guitar solo in Jimi Hendrix's 'All Along the Watchtower,' and that guitar sound, that tone, would work perfectly for this television commercial."

Yeah. See? "Stealing from the greats, that's okay." That's right. Once I stopped in [at G.I.T.] years later, when I was on tour going through L.A., just to see what it was like. They've got a completely high-tech, multi-million dollar facility...

More so than when you had been there?

Way more. When I was there, it was just a ragtag bunch of teachers, and they had all left by then. They had video facilities and a class for stage moves and all kinds of things. And I saw this guy who was working the desk, the guy who watches the door. He had a bass on, and he was practicing his Nirvana chops! He was playing "In Bloom" on his bass, way up on his chest, jazz-fusion style, to the Nirvana song. I thought, oh shit--he was practicing his grunge riffs! He was getting his grunge down! Best fucking thing you can do, if you have the interest, is go to a private teacher, go someplace, some college, and learn theory. That was something I really enjoyed, actually, something that wasn't totally pointless. Theory meaning the meaning of the musical nomenclature. I was attracted to really interesting harmonies, stuff that I would hear in Ravel, Ellington, Bartok.-Double Take, February 29, 1996

Once the site of a seakeasy and a bra factory, the 30,000-square-foot quarters were now the home of Musicians Institute, a vocational school for anyone who considered himself or herself a serious musician. With its wooden desks and chipped-tile hallways, MI resembled any other urban school, but at those desks, student guitarists and drummers studied scales and power chords in hopes of becoming the next Eddie Van Halen or Neil Peart, the flashy drummer with Rush. On their way to class each morning, flaxen-haired guitar gods in training could be spotted holding their guitars and practicing licks as they walked down Hollywood Boulevard.

Jeff had heard about Musicians Institute (and its subdivision, the Guitar Institute of Technology) while in high school and told everyone it was his one and only destination. However, potential superstardom did not run cheap. The school charged $4,000 for its one year course, and by the time Jeff Graduated from Loara High School, Mary Guibert was beginning to fall on hard financial times as she went in and out of jobs. In need of money for herself and her two sons, she prematurely broke into a $20,000 fund earmarked for Jeff, but only after he tured nineteen. Once Mary proved to the courtsthat Jeff needed it for his education, he and Mary received it a year early. In a deep irony, the father Jeff had barely met and increasingly resented would be paying his son's way through music school.

On graduation night, September 15, 1985, at the Odyssey in Granada Hills in the San Fernando Valley, Jeff, Stoll, and Marryatt closed the ceremony by playing Weather Report's "Pearl On the Half Shell."-from Dream Brother

With its 30-odd thousand feet of floor space and row upon row of "labs", where hopeful guitar heroes could jam with such shit-hot players as Scott Henderson, LA's Musician's Institute must have seemed like nirvana for someone like Jeff Buckley, trapped as he was behind the Orange Curtain. According to his buddy Chris Dowd, that's exactly why Buckley enrolled there, arriving just before autumn, 1984, bankrolled by $4,000 that Mary managed to squeeze from a Tim Buckley trust fund.

Originally known as the Guitar Institute, which in itself says plenty, the school was opened in 1977. Drawing on the educational philosophy of journeyman guitarist Howard Roberts, it was co-founded and managed by Los Angeles music businessman Pat Hicks, "a real shyster opportunist", in the words of Tom Chang, an expat Canadian who would become very tight with Jeff Buckley during their two years at the Institute. In 1978, thr Bass Institute was opened, followed by the Percussion Institute two years later. Desppite Hicks' questionable business ethics-amongst other things, he'd hire students as cheap labour to do essential maintenance work on the building, which led to Buckley being hired as an electrician's assistant soon after graduating-he did manage to persuade well regarded players and bands to lecture, and play alongside, the hopefuls who'd enrolled there.

What Buckley lacked up in "front" he clearly made up for in ambition. That was proved, in spades, by Buckley's graduation performance which was played out on September 15, 1985, at a venue called the Odyssey in Granada Hills. While the sonic crush and enviable chops of Rush and Led Zeppelin still rocked the world of this Orange County teen, Buckley had also developed a real taste for such "noodlers" as Weather Report.

The number chosen by Buckley for graduation was their "D Flat Waltz" (not "Pearl On The Half-Shell", as documented elsewhere, which they'd performed at a previous event), a typically complicated few minutes of Weather Report neo-fusion-a "really cool piece, very involved", according to Tom Chang-and a standout from their 1983 set Domino Theory. But Buckley, accompanied by Stoll on drums and Marryatt on bass, didn't just play the piece, he also wrote the individual parts out beforehand for the band.-from A Pure Drop

MI pics by me

#jeff buckley #MI #Musicians Institute #GIT #mylove #supremebeing #favorite #music #jeff places

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bby-ahgastay · 4 years

Text

Practice room - M.T.

a/n: hi! so this is my first post ig. i hope it’s okay lol. it’s honestly kind of a lot but mark really just had me like wowww. but i hope you enjoy! it’s very dirty with a couple lil soft moments. but mostly just sin.

member- mark tuan

summary- mark is stressed since he can’t get down a choreo so you help him out by letting him use you to fuck out his frustration.

word count- 3.5k

warnings- so many. public place, face fucking, fingering, slight degradation, dom!mark, sub!reader, rough sex, unprotected sex, mirror kink, choking kink, hair pulling, little bit of praising ig. idk this shit is just filthy man.

mark stumbles once again, landing with a loud groan. "fuck!" he exclaims angrily, tugging on his hair with one hand. he sighs and sits there for moment with his elbows resting on his knees, head in hands. you watch your boyfriend with a frown and get up to move over to him. placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, you crouch down so you're sitting behind him.

"baby, come on," you sigh at him, soothingly rubbing his back. "you've worked so hard today. all the boys left almost two hours ago, we should go home so you can rest." he just shakes his head and stares at the floor.

"no. i have to get this. they left because they had it down just fine. i keep messing this up. i don't know what's wrong with me, i've never had such a hard time with getting a fucking dance down and now it's just..." he trails off with a sigh. he rubs his face in frustration as you rest your head on his shoulder. you leave a light kiss on his cheek, trying anything to help soothe the man you love so much. seeing him so stressed out always brings you down. you just always want to see that smile that you fell so, so in love with.

mark stands and holds a hand out to you. he pulls you to the couch at the back of the practice room and sits down, pulling you down next to him. "i'm sorry, babe. i know you probably just want to go home already. i promise we will soon," he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side. a sigh leave his lips as he hugs you tight, his head resting on top of yours. "i just need to get that one move down first, i'm sorry."

"i know you want to get it right now, mark. but you're a good dancer, okay? you'll get it down, i know it. you're just stressed right now. and over worked. you need to relax. rest. or maybe at least blow off some steam." you look up and place a hand on his cheek, rubbing your thumb against his soft skin soothingly. his eyes close as your touch helps him feel better already.

it doesn't take long for an idea to pop into your head. you take your hand from his face and shift so your kneeling next to him on the couch. because of this his eyes open and he lifts his head to look at you, his head cocking slightly when he can see the look on your face.

"what's on your mind baby?" the slight undertone in his voice hints that he probably already knows the answer. when his hand moves to rub your thigh softly, it’s obvious that he definitely knows what you have in mind. he can read you so easily, you don't have to say a thing for him to know what you want and when, but he always loves making you say it anyways.

"nothing, just... i think i know how i can help you..."

you lean forward slightly to catch his lips on yours, one hand move to caress his neck. the kiss is slow and meaningful. you want him to know that you just want to help him. soon enough you pick up the pace, though, moving your tongue into his mouth and nipping at his lips.

he lets out a soft moan when you move to kiss his at neck and what his tank top exposes of his chest. "you're too good to me baby," you move to straddle him and look into his eyes, lust clouding his and no doubt yours too.

you hum and shake your head, leaning to leave more kisses on his neck. "no, you deserve everything and more my love." you grind your hips slightly down on his. "now come on, markie. use me to blow of some steam." your voice a seductive whisper, you take both of his hands in yours and place them on your hips. his fingers dig into you enough to leave bruises later, yet he's still gentle when he pulls you closer to his chest, letting you be in control for a little bit before he inevitably takes over. your hands start on his face as you lean in to kiss his lips. you slowly move your mouth downward as you continue to kiss his lips and neck, leaving plenty of marks on his neck and collarbone. got7s makeup artists will be very bothered when they have to cover all the dark spots on his neck, but neither of you care at all. you kiss and bite all the way down his chest, his abs, all the way back up then down again a few times.

finally your hands settle over his dick, rubbing him through his sweatpants. he lets out a throaty groan as your hands work on him, your lips focused on the sweet spot on his neck as you do. soon your lips are back on his and he pulls you so your chests are pressed together and your arms go around his neck, you hold each other as close as you can as you move your hips over him again and again. he does most of the work, his hands on your hips guiding your movements and pace.

it doesn't take too long before you're both moaning loudly and he's hard as a rock.

he tangles a hand in your hair and pulls you back, your eyes closing as the sensation rips a moan from your mouth, and his other hand is keeping your heat moving against him deliciously. the thin material of your leggings let's you feel his dick under his sweatpants rubbing against you so nicely, making you glad you decided against underwear today.

"look at me," he growls lowly as he pulls your hair roughly, to force you to open your eyes and meet his as you try to roll your head back. you gasp and look at him while panting, the look in his eyes telling you that he's no longer going to give you any control. you being in control never lasts long as mark just always ends up wanting to completely dominate you. he loves knowing you’re totally at his will, ready and eager to do what he tells you to and let him do whatever he wants to do to you.

"you really want me to fuck you in the practice room, baby? i know everyone is gone this late, y/n, but still... we're in public and you want me to fuck you anyways?" his voice is deep as he leaves kisses on your neck every few words. his tone is teasing, fake sweet. he digs his fingers into your hips even harder than they were, the slight pain blurring to pleasure. you moan and nod quickly, not even caring how desperate you must seem as you whine pathetically. you started wanting to pleasure him, but you know he is pleased seeing you like this. he could get off just on how needy you can get for his dick.

"look at my little slut. always so quick to get worked up," he smirks while watching your hips against his. marks eyes flash up to meet yours for a moment before he can't help but pull your head forward again, hurriedly crashing your guys’ lips together. after kissing you for a moment, just enough so he can taste your mouth again, he pulls away and looks at you fondly. "i want you on your knees baby. i need those pretty lips on my cock now."

you nod slightly before quickly moving from his lap, settling yourself so you're kneeling between his legs on the floor. he strokes your hair as your hands rub up his thighs, making your way for the waistband of his grey sweats. your fingers move under his waistband and he lifts his hips up to let you pull his sweatpants and boxers down at once. as you watch his dick swing up and hit his his stomach you can feel how excited you are to have him in your mouth.

you bite your lip and lean forward, starting by pumping him in your hand. you nearly moan just at the feeling of having your hand wrapped around him again. you can never help how you're just always so eager to feel his dick every time you guys have sex. whether it's with your hand, mouth, pussy, or anything you just love touching his thick cock.

slowly, you stick your tongue out to lick his head, looking up at him to watch his reaction. he stares down at you, breathing heavy in anticipation. you take the tip into your mouth and swirl your tongue around, mark sinking his teeth into his lower lip at the feeling. he lets you take your time for a while, you slowly work further and further down his length and his head falls back into the back of the couch as you take all of him. your nails dig into his thighs as his tip hits the back of your throat, forcing yourself to hold back your gagging.

after a few minutes of you just slowly moving your mouth up and down on him, taking every inch every time you go back down. but he can't hold himself back for too long before his hand is back in your hair, starting by just lightly pushing your head down and pulling your hair to bring you back up. he grunts slightly as he picks up the pace, and eventually his hips are bucking up to meet your mouth. tears begin to pool up in your eyes, but you don't even care.

you grip his thighs harder and let out a moan as he roughly fucks your mouth, almost making you gag every couple of thrusts. the way his low moans and grunts sound only makes you wetter against your leggings, your thighs pressing together for some sort of friction.

finally he pulls your head up, you gasping in a breath immediately. he pants while taking in your appearance, and you look so fucking pretty to him like this. with swollen lips and messy hair, still catching your breath, tears running down your cheeks and drool going down your chin and neck. "shit, baby... you look so fucking hot," he growls and pulls you back up to sit in his lap again.

despite how rough he's being with you he still lifts the hem of his shirt to your face, tenderly wiping your tears then the drool from your face and neck. "you're always so good when you let me fuck your pretty mouth... are you okay baby?" he tilts his head. you can tell he's still intending to treat you rough, set on completely ruining you, but he genuinely wants to make sure you're still okay with how rough he’s being. even when he knows you love being handled like this he never wants to go too far on accident.

you smile and nod with a hum. you lean down to kiss him and he remains sweet for a moment, kissing you so passionately and softly you could melt away. but soon his hands are on your hips and he pulls you back against him, his hands slip under your sweater and rub at your warm skin before pulling back and lifting your it off of you. he reconnects your lips and next he's hooking his fingers to pull your leggings down just enough so he can fuck you, but not all the way off. he quickly pulls away from your mouth and his eyes go right to your bare core.

"you're not even wearing underwear?" there's a dark look in his eyes. all you can do is shake your head and hum no, your voice caught in your throat. "you really are just my little slut, huh, baby?" he presses his thumb against your clit, rubbing circles against it a couple times. his fingers move up and down your slit, moving around your wetness as he does. he laughs when he feels how wet you are already.

"you like sucking me off this much, hm?" he looks up at you, tilting his head to the side with an amused and smug smile. "come on baby, i know i was rough on your throat...” he moves his hand as if he’s about to choke you, but he doesn’t put any pressure. “but it's not like you've lost your voice... answer me." his smiles falls just as he shoves two fingers into you, your jaw dropping at the sudden stretch. all you can do is let out small whines as he takes no mercy, scissoring his fingers apart inside you. "now," he speaks through gritted teeth as he fingers you.

"yes," you rasp out, your voice sounding rough with how abused your throat just was. "i fucking love sucking you off mark, and i fucking love when you fuck my mouth. it always makes me so wet, mark. i fucking love it,” you ramble a little as your breathing becomes heavy. “god... please, markie, i want your dick inside me so bad right now. please fuck me, mark."

he has to hold back a moan at your words, still not stopping his fingers inside you. the expression on your face as you beg him to stick his dick inside you is so innocent and it completely contradicts not only what your saying, also the fact that your letting him do all this to you in public. at his work place, nonetheless. his head moves down to kiss your neck and shoulder while he ignores your pleas, having the time of his life with his fingers attacking your pussy. he pulls back so he can see, watching his fingers slip in and out of your soaking pussy.

hoping he'll hurry and give you what you want, you whine and force another please to slip from your mouth, but it sounds more like another pathetic moan than an actual word. once again the corner of mark’s lips turn up into another smug smirk, tilting his head up at you to watch you struggle to keep your eyes open.

"you're so fucking needy," he growls out. but he still moves his fingers away, placing his other hand on the back of your neck to pull your face closer to his, your noses almost touching. "if you really want me to fuck you that bad then fine," he crashes his lips against yours, only lingering for a moment before pulling back away. "get up," he demands with a sharp slap to your ass that makes you gasp. you're quick to listen, standing up in front of him.

he pulls your pants down the rest of the way and uses his hands on your hips to spin you around and pull you back down on his lap, feeling his dick right against your ass. he lifts your hips and brings you back down on his dick, stuffing all of himself in you all at once just because he wants to hear you moan out loudly. he hums at the feeling of you around him and the sight of your ass on his lap.

one of his arms is wrapped across the front of your waist, his other hand grips one of your tits as he moves his mouth close to your ear. you shiver as his breath hits your ear, him already guiding you to move up and down on him at a fairly quick pace. "look at yourself in the mirror, baby. i want you to see how fucking hot you look while i fuck you," his voice is so deep and low in your ear, sending another shiver through your body as you can only nod. you stare at yourself in the huge mirror on the wall across from your guys’ spot on the couch.

mark leans back on the couch and holds your hips in place with both hands, beginning to buck his own hips up hard and fast. you can't help the moans and curses that pour from your mouth as your left hand goes to grip mark’s arm, trying to steady yourself as his thrusts make you jolt forward every time, even with his hands on your hips to help with keeping you in place. you try your best to do as he said and watch him fucking you in the mirror but you get so lost in the pleasure that your head falls back and your eyes close in bliss.

his right hand stays gripping your hips tightly, your own hand gripping that arm tightly as well still, but he lets go of your other hip. he uses that hand to plant a loud smack on your ass and then he grabs a fistful of hair and harshly forces you to look back up at the mirror. "watch," is all he says. you breathe heavily and whine, but still listen and force your eyes open to look at yourself in the mirror.

your hair is so messy, your cheeks are red and tear stained, and hickeys litter your neck and chest and shoulders. you look roughed the fuck up but that thought only makes you even wetter, as if you weren't already soaking. mark watches as his dick slides in and out of you with ease, low groans and grunts coming from his throat as you drip all over him.

"you're so fucking wet. how are you so fucking wet," he grumbles. "and you sound so fucking filthy. the way you’re moaning so loud for me, baby. you like me fucking you here? right here where you know someone could still walk in, hm? fuck, you're such a dirty little slut for me."

his words only push you closer to the orgasm you feel building while his tip hits your spot every time he snaps up into you. he wraps his arm around your front and pulls you to lay back on his chest as he keeps up his fast and rough pace. one hand stays in your hair and the other travels up your body, his touch raising goosebumps on your skin. his hand stops at your boobs, taking some time to knead each one in his hand, pinching and pulling at your nipples. his lips are on your neck again too and you watch the whole scene, taking in how dirty this is. the pleasure keeps building and building and it's all too much, you know you're going to cum soon. you let your head fall back on his shoulder as high pitched moans fall from your mouth sinfully.

he can feel it too, your walls are clenching around him so tight and it pushes him further and further towards his own high. he knows both of you won't last much longer, so he moves on from your boobs and goes up even more, resting on your neck. his hand tightens around your neck, just enough to make your mind foggy with all the pleasure, and he tugs your hair harder.

"come on baby, i know your gonna come. will you be a good girl and watch yourself cum for me?" you try to force your eyes open, your vision blurred as you can barely get them open. it’s difficult, but still you manage to open them more. "good girl," his voice is so honey like in your ear even as he's panting so hard. you know you need to cum, but you can't say anything with his hand around your throat, not that you mind.

"it's okay, baby, let go. go ahead and cum all over my cock," with his permission you don't hesitate to let your orgasm wash over you, taking over as your sounds get caught in your throat, your mouth open wide and tears pricking at your eyes. feeling you cum around him makes mark speed up even more, brutally fucking you through your high while still chasing his own. his hand also tightens around your throat, and now you can barely breathe but you fucking love it. you shudder from the overstimulation, your brain is too clouded to think anything.

it's not long before mark’s thrusts get sloppier and he's twitching inside you, his cum painting your walls as he slows down. the hand on your neck loosens as he cums, the other dropping from your head too. he moves both hands back to your hips, grinding you hard onto him once as you both come down.

"fuck." he pants and just wraps his arms around you as you go limp on top of him and your head falls back on his shoulder. his dick still inside you, you both catch your breaths and mark leaves soft kisses on your shoulder. after a minute he lifts you slightly and pulls out of you, making you wince at the feeling of being empty.

"i love you so much, y/n. thank you so much," he pants out, both of you still breathing pretty heavily. you smile softly and turn your head to look up at your boyfriend.

"i love you too, mark. anything to help you relax baby. besides, i guess i had fun too."

he raises his eyebrows and scoffs, smiling a little as you smirk. "you guess? did you hear yourself a few minutes ago?" he laughs as you blush, looking away from him and bringing a hand to cover your embarrassed laugh. the light moment is turned dark again in a second when mark moves to whisper in your ear.

"i know you saw yourself. how fucked out you looked," your breath hitches in your throat at the reminder of the sight of yourself.

"but if you only 'guess' you had fun, we'll just have to get home so i can really show you a fun time, huh?"

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writingsfromstarfleet · 4 years

Text

The Artist - Data X Reader

A/N: This wasn’t a request per say, though I know @sorlux did ask for some more Data, and here he is! Alas, I must admit: Do I hate this? Sorta. Do I know where I was going with this? Definitely not. Do I hope you all enjoy it regardless? Absolutely :’)

Art was a passion of yours, and had been as long as you could remember. Any form of material, be it a pen, paints, or clay, you were able to create something beautiful from it. Your family had always said you were gifted, and hoped for you to pursue a career in it. Instead, you had opted for a career in space. Your decision to join Starfleet over attending an art college was disappointing to your parents, though you knew in your heart they would still support it regardless. You were top of your xenobiology class, and had been offered a position on the USS Enterprise-D under Jean-Luc Picard, a well known captain amongst Starfleet cadets.

Two years had passed on the Enterprise, and you had made some wonderful friends amongst the crew. Least likely and yet possibly the closest one you had was with Data. He had become a very close friend, despite seeming closed off in the beginning. Now, however, you couldn't be more thankful for him. Data was a fan of the arts too, from music to craft, and that was how you bonded. Data was unaware of your talents in the creative department, it was something you had kept to your own whilst on the ship.

"Lieutenant Y/N, may I join you?" You smiled as you were greeted in Ten Forward by Data, looking up at the android and motioning for him to sit.

"Would I ever say no to you, Data?" You laughed, and he tilted his head in acknowledgement and sat. The silence was comfortable, the two of you just enjoying each others presence.

"Y/N, might I ask you something?" Data inquired, his usual tone of voice giving no emotions away. You smiled.

"Of course, what is it?"

"I have been writing another poem, and I was wondering if I could perform it to you before I read to the crew, and perhaps get your opinion on it?"

Your smile grew wider.

"Absolutely, Data. I have to head off back to work now, but how about you meet me in my quarters at 19:00 hours and you can show me then?"

"That would be acceptable. I shall see you then, Lieutenant," He nodded, and you squeezed his shoulder with a wink and left to return to your duties.

The day had dragged itself on, menial tasks here and there; a less exciting day than you were used to. Still, you had the night to yourself. Throwing on some old clothes and pulling out your draw full of art supplies, you began working once more on a brand new piece, a portrait of a woman. Portraits were never your speciality, though you felt it was time to branch out your line of style, and what better way to do it than to leave the comfort zone.

So engrossed in your art, not to mention the boredom of the day you'd had, it had completely slipped your mind that Data was due to arrive for his poetry reading at seven, of which it was currently quarter to. Still oblivious, you continued your art, humming and singing as you focused. The bell to your quarters startled you, and you panicked, trying your best to hide your art.

Dressed in clothes not covered in paint, and the canvas hidden badly behind the drapes on the wall, you opened the door and greeted Data with a smile.

"Data, apologies for the wait, do come in." You gestured for him to enter and stepped aside.

"No need for apologies, Y/N, I thank you for allowing me to perform for you." He pulled a couple of sheets of paper out and set them on the table.

"Mind if I grab a drink before you begin?" You asked, receiving a shake of the head from the android.

Standing, you left towards the small kitchen area of your quarters. Data took his time to study your quarters; they were kept neat and tidy, and exactly what he'd expect from you. His curiosity peaked when he caught sight of the corner of a canvas peeking out from behind some drapes. He stepped forward and pulled them back, revealing your half finished painting.

"Data" you said, voice monotone. You made no effort to move or cover it up; he'd already seen it.

"This is remarkable, Y/N. I was not aware you were a painter." Data's words carried a fascination reminiscent of a child. You half smiled and spoke up.

"Not something I shared, really. My parents weren't the biggest fans of me not pursuing it as a career, so I chose to do it silently after I joined Starfleet."

Data turned to you. "Why would you hide such a talent?" He sounded very much confused, astounded even.

"I don't know, shame I guess. I could have been the child my parents always wanted, the art major who went on to be big in that world, and instead I chose science and a life in space. Whenever I do art, I think of my family, and I think of how much I must have disappointed them, Data. Every time I reach for a brush I feel guilty, like I should be back at home rather than here."

You stopped talking when you felt tears running down your face, not noticing at first that you started to cry. Never had you spoken of how you felt about all of this, and here you were, unexpectedly opening up. Data, unfamiliar with human emotions, did his best to try and alleviate what you were feeling in that moment. He walked to you, and placed his hands on your shoulders, to which you responded by wrapping your arms around him. It was a silent exchange of care, one you appreciated very much.

"I'm sorry, Data, you're here for your poetry, not my therapy session" you joked, pulling back from him to wipe your eyes, though Data was having non of it. He sat you down and knelt before you.

"My poetry does not matter whilst you are hurting this much. You should never have to feel shame over choosing a life for yourself that you wanted. It is not your parents life, and you should not feel guilty for having such a talent." Data spoke softly, knowing that you needed to hear what he had to say. He was looking you right in the eye, and you knew everything he was saying was true. You had no reason to feel like this, they would be proud of the person you were now, regardless, and they would just be happy you kept on doing art as a hobby.

"You're right, Data. Thank you." Your words were quiet, but he heard them loud and clear. "Shall we get to your poetry then?" You chuckled slightly, as he held out a hand to help you stand, ever a gentleman.

Data's head twitched, as he pulled two paintbrushes out from behind his back.

"No, tonight, we are painting." He had what you could only call a look of mischief on his face, and as began to set up two easels side by side, you knew you had found a true soulmate in Data.

#star trek imagine #star trek #star trek the next generation #star trek tng #the next generation #tng #data #data soong #data x reader #data imagine #imagine #x reader

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etlunainmorte · 4 years

Text

Very brief mention of abuse and bullying. Read with caution. Thank you!

***

📷 Memories 📷

***

"I'll be home soon, Kyrie. I promise. Okay." Nero placed his cellphone back to his pocket just in time to see Nico's mysterious black - haired friend glancing at something outside the window of the trailer.

"See something you like?" The young Devil Hunter asked, his eyebrows knitted in confusion at the way the man stared.

"She has been at it for almost an hour and a half,..." The man answered with a low voice.

"I told ya, don't mind what she does." Nico, who was fixing the broken camera at the back of the trailer where her messy workplace was situated, answered almost harshly. She gave a quick look at her friend, saw him still staring outside the window, and rolled her eyes in defeat. Then, with a slightly irritated look at Nero, she added, "See? He just won't listen!"

"What are you looking at, anyway?" Curious, Nero finally gave a glance outside the window to see what the man was staring at. And lo and behold, he saw Mary sitting at one of the old benches outside not far from where the trailer was parked, doing something really,... unusual. "Oh, this is something new. What's she doing?"

"I saw her taking out a sketchbook from that bag of hers. And she started,... scribbling." The man answered.

"Huh. Really?" Nero scoffed and collapsed at the chair opposite V. "Well, that's something new. At least she's doing something really productive for a change."

"Meaning?" It was V's turn to ask a question.

Ever since he arrived at the location, V couldn't help but feel that there really was something very odd about what was happening. At first, he thought that Nico was only exaggerating things to make him come out of hiding, hysterically saying stuff like Demons appeared here and there, did this and that, and that she needs his knowledge to get to the bottom of this. Now, years of extensive studies on Demonology has taught V that the evil creatures would not appear and wreak havoc on the surface unless they are ordered to do so by a higher, sort of high - ranking, Demon. Or if they are seeking something of utmost value. Regardless, when V arrived, he proved Nico's words to be the truth. Demons did appear here and there and did this and that.

However, he can't say that his knowledge about Demonology is enough to solve this mind - boggling issue about these creatures appearing out of nowhere.

And Mary's odd behavior, and most probably his guilt of wrecking the damn camera, didn't help with the situation, at all.

"You see," Nero began. " ... Mary was - "

"Hey,... " Nico interrupted all of a sudden. The two men both looked at her and saw her pointing at something right outside the window next to her. " ... that's Morrison!"

Morrison? Thought V as the Artisan went out to greet the new visitor,...

***

It's unmistakable. Marsha heard the girl crying. And she has never even heard or seen the child do so.

The tall and perfectly poised woman abandoned her knitting and sped towards the living room to see her niece trying to patch up what looked like wounds on her palms with bandages.

And not just any wound,...

"Mary?!" Marsha called. The little girl almost jumped in fear as she heard her name being called and tried to hide her hands behind her back.

And this only made Marsha even more suspicious.

The woman sighed, strode closer towards the girl, bent down and grabbed her niece's arms. "You don't hide things from me, young lady!"

"But, Marsha, it's nothing!" The girl hopelessly argued, for she knew she was losing. Marsha finds out about everything, and that was a fact.

But, the older lady was having none of Mary's arguments. Marsha pulled her niece's arms from behind her back, held out her little hands, and saw, in utter fright and disgust, the lashes and blood painting the girl's little palms.

And the sight infuriated Marsha to the bone.

The next morning, Mary found Marsha knitting again on her little space in the huge library.

"I'm going to school." Mary announced with a loud voice over the Doris Day song that was being played on a vintage record atop one of the antique tables next to the shelves to her left. It was Marsha's favorite song.

And to what Mary just said, the older lady looked up from her handiwork and only raised an eyebrow. Raising her wire - rimmed glasses above her pointed nose, she said, "Oh, you're not going to school today, young lady."

Mary furrowed her eyebrows in disbelief. "Why?"

"Because, I said so!" The woman answered, her facial expression as stoic as ever. "Now, do come here and keep me company."

The little girl, although doubtful of Marsha's decision to not drive her to school that one particular morning, obeyed, putting her bag on the floor next to the iron table and sat across her aunt.

Looking at the many colorful yarns and several unfinished projects on the table, Mary asked, "How about tomorrow?"

"No." Marsha answered, her eyes never leaving her craft. Her answer remained the same for a week that Mary finally took up the courage to pick up one of the green yarns and a pair of darning needles from Marsha's knitting kit.

And this did not go unnoticed by Marsha, herself. Looking at Mary's freshly bandaged hands, and the needles she's holding, she nodded, and said, "Very well. I could teach you if you want. ONLY if you want."

Mary gave a sheepish smile and placed the yarn and the needles back to the basket before her. She, then, took out her sketchbook and some coloring materials from her bag and went on to finish that Venus art she's been working on for a week since Marsha forbade her to come to school.

It was not until another week when Mary finally found out that Marsha tried to press charges to the school and that awful teacher who gave her those wounds. Getting little to no justice after what happened, Marsha gave up and, instead, had Mary enrolled to a different school that was very far from that accursed place full of bullies, not to mention that devil Burns ( who only received penalties so light it's ridiculous, considering what he's done ) still on the loose and freely roaming about that campus.

It was also during that time when Mary almost memorized all of Doris Day's songs about love and heartbreak, and how not to question Marsha's decisions ever again.

***

" ... please, call me, Mary. I'm so worried about you - "

With furrowed eyebrows, Mary ended the voicemail from her aunt and made her way back to the trailer where she found, yet, another visitor sitting on a chair across that tall, black - haired man who stepped on Nico's camera.

Stuffing her cellphone back to her pocket, she saw the new visitor standing up and offering his hand to her.

"I'm Morrison." The man graciously introduced himself as he shook Mary's hands. "And you must be Mary Suermann! New accomplice of Nico?"

"Ah, yes, you might say that." Mary answered quietly as she took her hand from his, trying to ignore the fact that she could feel someone staring at her from behind her back. She carefully turned around without having to face V and stood next to the door, seeing that her companions were discussing something.

"So, let me get this straight," Morrison began as he settled back to his chair. " ... strange Demons began appearing randomly in some specific locations in this city? And not just any Demon, you say?"

"Yeah." Nero, who was sitting on the sofa next to V, answered. "Ahh, V, what did you say that Demon's name was, again?"

"Niddhogg." V answered, his low voice sending shivers down Mary's spine. She would never, ever, forget that voice, no. "But it wasn't particularly a Demon. It was a parasite that lives in an evil tree called the Qliphoth, which thrives on Human blood."

"And this Qliphoth tree," Morrison spoke. " ... are there any of those growing around here?"

"If there is,... then this city could very well be done for." V answered, successfully drawing all eyes on him in curiosity. "You see, this,... demonic tree,... grows quite,... let's just say,... rapidly. But, never mind that. The point is: there should be no Niddhogg if there is no,... Qliphoth,... to begin with."

"Niddhogg,... " Morrison mused as he rubbed his stubble. "I'm not gonna lie with you but, that is the first time I've heard of that thing. I don't even know what that looks like - "

"Exactly why Mary had to take pictures of it!" Nico added, emphasizing on the name like she was some kind of a criminal who committed such atrocious deeds. "Isn't that right, huh Mary?"

With a deep sigh, she took out her sketchbook from her bag, opened it, and handed it to Morrison, who gazed at it with such unmasked awe.

Not that the Demon illustrated in it was such a looker, no.

"Magnificent!" Morrison exclaimed. "Are you the one who drew this, Mary?"

With a little sheepish smile, she nodded, and answered, "Yeah."

Morrison looked up from the sketchbook, held it up for the others to see, and asked, "Is this the one?"

And to this, V's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. It truly was an exact and very detailed drawing of the demonic parasite Niddhogg.

Who knew this girl had some kind of a hidden talent?

"Indeed." V answered, a bit of admiration getting past his monotonous voice, which Mary didn't miss.

Nico, who was leaning against her jukebox, took the sketchbook from Morrison's hands and stared at it with widened eyes full of wonder and disbelief. This made Mary smile a bit, and V, who was observing this entire scene, didn't miss the little gesture.

"Whoa. Ya really are an artist!" Nico exclaimed.

"Why?" Nero butted in. "Don't believe her?"

Even before Nico could fire up her own response, Morrison cleared his throat and said, "I want to take a picture of that illustration, if I may. I would show it to my associate in the Devil Hunting business and see if he could crack any sort of thing, anything, regarding this demonic parasite."

Seeing that Morrison's statement was directed at her, Mary nodded, giving her full consent. And as the man began taking photos of her Niddhogg art with his cellphone, Nero asked, "Where were you going, anyway?"

"To the office of the said associate in the Devil Hunting business."

"You mean, Dante?"

"Right you are." Morrison handed the sketchbook back to Mary and placed his cellphone back to his breast pocket. "I have some things to discuss with him. About a man who was found dead in his own house just this morning."

"What happened?" It was V's turn to ask a question.

"Reports say he died of cardiac arrest. Not that big of a deal, to be perfectly honest. Except that this man was linked to the disappearance of a few children in the last decade. There are no sufficient evidence to prove his crimes but, investigations are underway after they found some curious things in his home right after his body was taken."

"And those are?" V pried even further, and it was honestly making Mary a bit nervous.

"Some trinkets and clothes that belong to children. Apparently, they were hidden in a small compartment just behind his fridge. The authorities found the man's body, and some emptied bottles of water, right next to it."

"Maybe they belonged to his kids, or something?" Nero tried to explain.

"Yes, except that this man had no children, or relatives living close by. And the only people he knew were his colleagues in a school he was teaching at. Now, don't you worry about this thing. You have your own problems to deal with. But, just to be sure that my hunches are wrong, I will speak to Dante regarding this - "

"This man," All eyes, including V's, all turned to see Mary looking wide - eyed and horrified as she stood near the door. " ... who was he?"

"His name," Morrison began as he stood up and gathered his things on the table. " ... was Roger Burns. He was a teacher at - "

"I know." Mary heard Nico's little gasp at what she just revealed. "He was my teacher."

"Oh!" Morrison exclaimed and put a hand on Mary's shoulder. "I'm so sorry for the loss of your teacher - "

"Actually, I'm not in the least bit sorry. In fact, he - "

"He?" Morrison and the others waited as Mary held out her hands to show them something. But, then, something made her stop as she somewhat stared in disbelief at her own hands.

V, who stood just in time to see what Mary was looking at, saw nothing but her smooth - looking palms.

"Girl, what are you trying to say?" Nico, who was getting a bit impatient, questioned.

Mary looked up, smiled, and brought her hands down. "Nothing! Just,... nothing."

"Alright, then! I'll take my leave. I'll see you around." Morrison, who pretended to not be weirded out by what just happened, tipped his hat and finally left the trailer with more questions than answers.

"Are you alright?" Nero, who placed a hand on Mary's shoulder, kindly asked.

With a smile, she answered, "Never better."

However, V knew that was a lie. Mary was hiding something from them. It was very clear to him. But, what was it?

And why should Mary open up to them in the first place? They wouldn't believe her if she told them that the scar caused by her now dead teacher was all but mysteriously gone!

***

📷📷📷

***

#vitale #devil may cry 5 #vitale sparda #memories #mary suermann #v and oc #v and mary #chapter ii

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sauveteen · 5 years

Note

Stressed Shawn being ready mean when you're about to tell him some big news (like a job promotion or something)? Love you! 💞

warning: angst. dk why i put these anymore do i even write anything else lmao

Shawn’s achieved a lot in life. He’s one of the biggest faces in the music industry, a two time Grammy nominated artist, earning more in a day than she probably earns in an entire year, and she loves that he’s reaching things and doing stuff that he could only ever dream of reaching and doing. And she’s always happy for him. Fuck, she’s probably happier than him when he accomplishes a big feat or gets a tune right or just smiles, because she loves him. And he loves her back, of course.

Stands to reason, then, that she expects him to be happy for her when she tries telling him about the biggest achievement in her life. Ever. About the job she got at the firm she’s dreamed about working for for ages, and granted, it’s not as big as a Grammy and can never compare to a twice platinum album, but it’s a big thing for her. It’s huge, and she loves Shawn and wants nothing more than to share her happiness with him.

She can tell he isn’t listening from the moment she sits down next to him on the couch, tucking her feet under her legs and beaming with pride because she is. Proud, that is. She’s proud of herself, and she’s so fucking happy that her back never even touches the couch, chest bloated and cheeks flushed red. She can tell he isn’t listening but she still talks, reaching over to intertwine their fingers under the blanket Shawn’s thrown over himself. He looks over at her, and he loves her, but he isn’t listening. Her hair’s a mess and a half, baby hairs and flyaways sticking every which way, and he wants to reach over and tuck her loose strands behind her ear. Or maybe do her braid the way she likes, all loose and pretty. But he doesn’t. He only pretends to listen, sending her the occasional nod and a weak smile, hoping she doesn’t pick up on it.

She does, though. She knows him, and she was talking because she was hoping Shawn would eventually pick up on her words and jump around the room with her, but he isn’t even looking at her anymore. He isn’t even pretending to listen.

She grins tiredly, nudging his shoulder, and teases, “So about the guy I’ve been seeing…”

“Huh?” Shawn blinks, and gives her a smile, “That’s so cool, babe.”

Her smile drops, and lips part a little. He hasn’t heard a word of what she’s said so far, has he?

It’s okay, she tells herself, he’s probably just tired.

She slumps, back now touching the couch, and brings her hand up to tangle into his curls. Scratches lightly, and smiles when he sighs. But then he shifts, and her hand falls from his hair, and he fixes his gaze at the television again. Her chest tightens.

“Shawn?”

He doesn’t answer. She squeezes his hand, and it goes limp in her hold. “Shawn, baby? You okay?”

Shawn props his elbow on the back of the couch, and rests his head in his palm. He laughs a little at something some characters says, and she maybe wants to cry a little. But she’s happy, and she’s proud, and so she won’t. He’s just tired.

Cuddling closer into him, she rests her head on his shoulders, pretending that he’s kissing her because he’s happy for her and maybe he’s pouring her a glass of the wine she loves so much and they’re dancing around their living room, laughing to themselves. But they aren’t, and that’s not reality, and in reality Shawn isn’t talking to her and she’s the happiest she’s been in a long, long time, and she doesn’t know how she can fix something she doesn’t even know was broken.

“Shawn, I got the job today.” She murmurs into his shirt, and he shifts. Shawn’s hand leaves hers, and her head practically rolls right off his shoulder. Here eyes widen, but she doesn’t force herself back onto him. Puts a little distance between themselves, and brings her knees up to her chest, folding into herself. She rests her head on her knees, trying to gauge what’s wrong, but his expressions don’t let anything up. He’s still laughing in small intervals, but it isn’t the deep wheezing kind where his eyes go all squint and his cheeks go all red and she has to laugh too, because his happiness is so contagious. No, it’s more of a half hearted, put on chuckle, as if he’s trying to make himself laugh.

“Shawn.”

He finally spares her a glance, and his eyebrows are raised in clear disinterest. Her heart sinks, and suddenly she doesn’t want to tell him anymore. Shawn clearly couldn’t care less right now, so who’s to say if he ever cared? Does he even know that she’s been working towards this job for years, or were his continuous motivation and sweet words all fake too? She doesn’t know anymore. She wishes she did, but she doesn’t, and she doesn’t know the Shawn that’s staring back at her right now.

“What.” His response is sharp, and a little more of an end-of-discussion statement than it is a question, and she hates that her chin wobbles a little at his empty eyes and pursed lips. She isn’t going to cry. She’s happy, and she won’t cry.

“Nothing.” She turns her head, and curls her fingers into her legs, digging into the skin of her thighs. “It isn’t important.”

“No, tell me,” Shawn’s fingers curl around her arm, and he tugs a little, causing her to lose her balance. Her hands immediately fly out to grip the material of the couch, and her head whips around to meet his blank stare with one of her own, “You haven’t stopped blabbering since the moment you got home. Tell me, now.”

“Maybe you should’ve listened when I was actually talking.”

“Maybe,” He lets her arm go, and crosses his arms over her chest, “you should’ve stopped talking when you knew I wasn’t listening.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, okay, Shawn,” Her voice is flat and devoid of any emotion, but the pink climbing up her neck gives her away. She’s upset, but Shawn can’t bring himself to care. “Okay, I’ll ask for permission before talking to my boyfriend next time. Makes sense.”

“You do that, babe.”

Anger blooms in her chest. Anger, with the largest specks of hurt, and she gets up. And here’s the thing, you know. Shawn isn’t shouting at her. He isn’t hurting her, he’s just talking, and she has no reason to be upset with him because he’s allowed to be down and he’s allowed to be aloof. God knows he deals with her when she’s in one of her moods. But maybe, maybe, because she is — was — so ecstatic and so happy for once in her life, he could pretend to be proud of her and just give her a grin and tell her that he loves her and she’d be okay. That would do for her, honestly. But he’s being irrationally cold and she doesn’t know what she did to deserve his shoulder, but she can’t allow herself to feed into it. She has to walk away before she fights with him and completely annihilates the little that’s left of her previous giddiness.

“Don’t walk away now,” Shawn tells her, “You started this. You can’t walk away.”

She doesn’t answer. She keeps walking, and she hears him call out her name, but her feet are a mind of her own when they lead her into the bathroom and her hands work on their own accord as they latch the door. She rests her back against the tiles, tilting her head back, and breathes. Sometimes when they’re fighting or it’s leading there she can forget to breathe, and she doesn’t realise how bad it is until her chest constricts and she starts heaving. She remembers now, though, and so she spends the next minute or two just breathing, eyes squeezed shut.

What did she start? She wants to storm out there and ask him. What is it that she started? She really wants to know, but knowing would entail talking to him, and talking would entail looking at him, and she can’t look at him right now. She can’t look into cold, empty eyes when she’s supposed to be happy, because that isn’t fair to her. She can’t willingly jeopardise something that is so precious to her.

She stares at her face in the mirror, stares at the little blotches of red that stain her neck and face, and her fingers tighten around the sink. She’s happy, she tells herself over and over again, she’s happy and she doesn’t care that Shawn isn’t. It’s her job, and it’s going to be her office, and it’s going to be her money, so of course Shawn doesn’t care. She’ll probably be sitting on her ass when he receives his Grammy, and he’ll probably thank her, too, but the only difference would be that she’ll be happy for him.

He isn’t happy for her.

A knock sounds on the door, and she squeezes her eyes shut. She hates herself for hoping that he’s there to apologise, because he did nothing wrong. She’s being a baby and she knows it. “Yes?”

Shawn hesitates before answering, she can tell because she can hear the shuffling of his feet outside the door. And then he talks, and she wishes he hadn’t. “You’re not crying, are you? That’s stupid.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathebreathbreathe.

“Just doing my hair, Shawn.”

“Okay.” And then he walks away. Just like that. She guesses that hurts more than an actual fight, because when they’re fighting she actually knows what’s up. Now all she knows and can think about is that he doesn’t give a single fuck, and that he probably never did, and she rode home smiling and dancing in her car to someone who thinks that crying is stupid. She should’ve said yes. What would Shawn have done then? Tell her tears are dumb?

When she washes her face and walks back to the kitchen because she still needs dinner, she sees Shawn through the crack of their bedroom door. Lying on his front, face buried in his pillow, lazily scrolling through Instagram. She sniffs a little, then, because it has never mattered how mad either of them are at the other, they never eat alone. She can’t remember the last time she sat alone on the island, pushing vegetables around her plate without the sound of his humming or the string of his theories running in the background. Now all she hears are the looming thoughts in her head, and she gets up, scraping her food into the garbage can. She catches her reflection on a small, round mirror, and can’t believe she’s still holding it together.

It’s because she’s happy, she thinks to herself, and he’s just tired.

The letter that she was going to give to Shawn, the one about her job acceptance and the one material thing she’s ever come to love, lies on the floor. Discarded, just like her happiness. She sinks into the couch, and shuts her eyes.

Next morning, Shawn wakes up to an empty bed and a piece of paper on the floor of his living room, and realises how badly he fucked up. But he doesn’t wake her up, because she’s tired, he guesses.

They’re both tired, and God knows how many sleeps apart it will take for them to feel fresh again.

permanent taglist: @yellowitsmendes @fuckneymar @heavenly---holland @sammyrhm @sinceweremutual @fiftyshadesofeveryfandom @bluerroses @rishlo @shawnjpeg @demolitionloversss @yourwonderbelle@shawnxmendesxo @rechema @curlyfan @wallflw-r @dtfshawnmendes (just ask to be added.)

masterlist in bio. send me requests if you’d like.

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes fan #shawn mendes x reader #angst #blurb #one shot

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witching-after-hours · 5 years

Text

Animal Guides

I've been studying into animal guides and their symbolisms as a part of the studies that I do in my own personal time, the reason behind it is because for the past few months I've randomly been noticing more groups of certain species of animals, insects, etc...while I'm out and about. None of them have ever really been by themselves and if they are then there is usually at least another one near by of the same species that I would notice moments later, so as of lately I've been taking these occurrences as a sign.

Today my animal guide book that I ordered came in at the local metaphysical shop I'm a regular at, I drove down to the shop to purchase my book and before I officially purchased it I paged through it a bit to make sure it was a book that would be worth my money and time spent reading. Once I opened the book the first page I turned to was "Daddy Long Legs", I didn't think much of it nor did I read the page..I kind of brushed it off and continued paging through the book until I finally decided to make the purchase.

Tonight after I got home from running my errands for the evening while I took my dog out to get her business done when I came across not one but FIVE daddy long legs as well as two rather large wolf spiders all in separate areas on the same sidewalk, mind you I haven't seen any daddy long legs all summer so I kind of got a little shook at the irony of this being a sudden occurence. I let my pup finish her business and immediately got back inside and I opened back to the page about daddy long legs and also looked up the page on spiders since I also saw the two wolf spiders and didnt want to leave anything out. I about fell over from the accuracy of it, I'm completely mind fucked (pardon the language).

Let me reiterate a bit so that way were all on the same page for the accuracy - For a while I've been getting heavily back into my artwork (not that I ever quit) because I've decided to finally make the effort and give myself that push I need to try and sell my artwork and focus on working to pursue potentially becoming a full time artist. It's something I've always wanted to do for years and never had the confidence to take the first step to where I can get started down that path partially due to the fact that I never knew where to start and also dealing with a lot of toxic people in my life who dont support me by constantly telling me that this goal is a bad idea or there's a high chance I can fail and that I may be left with nothing in the end, I'm slowly working on eliminating these people from my life as I go because in order for me to reach my goal and work hard I must remove all obstacles that may slow me down along the way. I use a lot of different materials when it comes to my art but my main medium is watercolor/ink and to get back into the feel of things I decided to use inktober as an excuse to pull myself back in and make some art that I can potentially sell later down the road. So that's pretty much it, I'm striving to sell my paintings as prints full time to the point where I am able to live comfortably with confidence knowing that I'm stable and if I of course have to I will have a part time day job as my fall back until my art really takes off or if there's ever a time where business gets slow. Now that I've caught everyone up, go back to the part when I mebtioned all of the daddy long legs - Here's what the book had to say.

**If anymore of these occurrences happen again I will make sure to post more about my experiences for all of you to read!**

Also if anyone is curious as to which book I purchased in case you're interested in checking it out yourself, I've posted about image of the cover below. Enjoy!

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kingofthewilderwest · 5 years

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Can you describe Cressida Cowell's writing style? (And try to convince me to start reading httyd books while you're at it)

Oh my goodness, I am *SO* excited to talk about Cowell’s writing style!

I realized my FAQ page was outdated with a broken link (whoops!), so I’ve fixed that! If you haven’t check that page out or my up-to-date #faq tag, I’ve written many responses on why I recommend the HTTYD books. Obviously those posts aren’t focused on Cowell’s writing style, as you’re curious about. Nevertheless, since you’re interested in recommendations and perspectives regarding those books, these prior responses could be worth checking out, and I’ll happily boop you a link to some of those! [1] [2] [3]

Cressida Cowell’s writing style, to me, is a fascinating combination of simple and eloquent. This goes for how she forms sentences, constructs plot, uses tropes, and more. She takes seemingly common elements that most of us wouldn’t consider “special” - and utilizes them to powerful effect.

Her narration style is charming. In the How to Train Your Dragon books, she uses two similar but distinct writing styles. The prologues and epilogues are given a finesse different than the material in the main chapters.

The majority of her text is written in an almost whimsical, childish way - especially at the start of the series. Sentences are simple; descriptions are amusing; humor is prevalent; and her presentation is straightforward. Unashamed use of italics, capslock, font changes, and font size changes - plus childish scribbles for illustration - contribute to the youthfulness of her narration.

How to Train Your Dragon Ch. 1: First Catch Your Dragon:

“ANYBODY would be better than Hiccup,” sneered Snotface Snotlout. “Even Fishlegs would be better than Hiccup.”

Fishlegs had a squint that made him blind as a jellyfish, and an allergy to reptiles.

“SILENCE!” roared Gobber the Belch. “The next boy to speak has limpets for lunch for the next THREE WEEKS!”

There was absolute silence immediately. Limpets are a bit like worms and a bit like snot and a lot less tasty than either.

As the series develops, the main prose develops slightly, too. Fans often discuss how Cowell’s illustrations markedly grow in complexity from start to end, even as they retain their childish personality. Cowell herself has confirmed that these artistic changes are representative of Hiccup aging. The writing doesn’t change as notably, but it’s arguably there. So, this benign, whimsical narration takes on intentional effect: she’s writing a story about a child with prose that matches the character’s age. It helps us readers enter the mind of a child as we go through Hiccup’s younger years. It’s not to say that it means we can’t think through complex topics in this framework, because we do address deep topics in the breadth of the narration... but the childish writing style provides a personality and character and framing device for how we readers “feel” the story.

The prologues and epilogues are different. In first instead of third person, they’re written as the reflections of old man Hiccup in his eighties. The writing style here maintains simple characteristics in, for instance, word choice... but it’s mature in tone and topic. These passages are often my favorites, as they delve into interesting moral reflections tied to the adventures young!Hiccup is having in the main story. This is where Cowell shines the most in her combination of simple and eloquent. There’s beauty in what she writes in the prologues and epilogues. Reading them aloud, words flow marvelously (that opening passage in the first book... mmm yum), and you can hear the reflection of the man behind them. It’s where you’ll get quotes like:

How to Ride a Dragon’s Storm: Epilogue

Maybe all Kings should bear the Slavemark, to remind them that they should be slaves to their people, rather than the other way around. And to help them never to forget what it feels like to be a child... to be small and weak and helpless.

How to Betray a Dragon’s Hero: Prologue

Great things are only made out of love and out of pain.

A great sword must be made out of the very best steel. But what truly makes the sword great is what happens to the sword after it is made.

We call this the “testing” of the sword.

The sword is bashed and hammered and hollered into shape by the bright hammer. It is thrust into the fierce heat of the fire, where it softens, and then it is quickly quenched in water, where it hardens again. The higher the temperature, the fiercer the fire, the tougher and greater the sword eventually becomes.

The whole testing process can make a sword, or break it.

The same could be said for the making of a Hero.

Cowell’s still not using complicated vocabulary. Occasionally she’ll insert something like “indelible” into the text, but generally, it’s (superficially) simple language. However. It’s also thoughtful, eloquent, and markedly more mature than something you’ll get in Chapter 3 of the first book. “Great things are only made out of love and out of pain” is something I could embroider and hang on my wall - it’s that sort of a reflective quote.

The contrast of the two styles - the more childish and the more eloquent-mature - help us understand Hiccup’s life from two perspectives: the viewpoint of a kid experiencing dangers around him idealistically hoping to change the world, and the viewpoint of an adult reflecting back with complex moral understandings. And as Hiccup’s adventures become increasingly darker and he grows in age, the main prose will match the mood.

The writing style works. She doesn’t need a large vocabulary or complex sentential forms to sound thoughtful and imbue great adventures or thematic points. Cowell knows how to impart heart-felt concepts and great reflections for readers of any age, child to adult... and have us impacted by them.

Cressida Cowell’s use of tropes is similarly deceiving. The best writing, I believe, combines refreshingly new material with storytelling elements we’re familiar with - our tropes. I believe Cowell strikes the balance marvelously.

She brings in wildly creative new concepts - like a quirky world where dragon species are everything down to big-mouthed bee catchers or insect-sized nanodragons. Characters are equally as ridiculous and special; I’d be hard-pressed to find a personality similar to Camicazi anywhere in literature or media.

Cowell also knows how to use tropes. We so often see the feckless, unwanted, socially outcast wimpy protagonist turn into a Hero. We’ve seen a character with a special sword and a noteworthy family history. We’ve seen a character called by fate and prophecy to revolutionize the land before apocalypse. But that doesn’t make Hiccup a generic character handled blandly. Cowell balances fate with agency and with the challenges of reality. Hiccup has to make choices to save what he loves. And Hiccup is limited in what he can do. After all, “History is a set of repeating circles, like the tide. The wind does blow through the ruins of tomorrow. But it is more a question of two steps forward, one step back.” What we get is a Hero’s journey, but one where our Hero is truly spectacular, diligent, unyielding, pushed to the brink, and endlessly inspirational.

I think the thing that impresses me the most in how Cowell handles tropes is the “it can’t get any worse and then it does” concept. We’ve seen it before. Stories make protagonists go through a dark low. And when the character doesn’t think situations can worsen, they do. What makes the HTTYD series so spectacular and unique in how it’s handled... is the sheer repeated beating Cowell does. It’s overwhelming. She keeps going, and going, and going, and going, and doesn’t stop. Other authors would have stopped five bad events ago! It’s to the point that, in book ten, after so many bad things repeatedly occurred, I cried when Hiccup reached one small positive in his efforts. The author isn’t afraid to put our protagonist through the ringer, thereby making every bad experience, and good experience, impacting, memorable, and sometimes shocking to us as readers.

Cowell definitely uses plot devices we’ve seen before. But she weaves them together impactingly, making an emotional ride through high highs and low lows. We’re left with an inspirational takeaway and a Hero’s development we won’t forget.

Cowell’s long-term plot structure is brilliant, too. She divides the series into three equal parts, more or less. The first part is the “isolated” series of whimsical, innocent, childish adventures. The second part makes you squint suspiciously, realizing you’re getting into more complex and dangerous incidences than you expected. The third part is what I lovingly call “the Ragnarok of pain and despair.”

The starting books, deceivingly, seem like isolated, simple adventures. Cowell’s actually setting ALL the stages for the series’ later turmoil. She’s inserting characters, items, prophecies, themes, conflicts, and plot points that will become extraordinarily impacting as the series continues. But readers don’t notice Cowell’s clever, thorough foundation. They just see cutesie, simple, isolated incidences first read through.

The middling section is where Cowell starts to utilize what she set up. She begins implementing chaos and intertwining strings, pulling Hiccup’s life from random childhood incidences with Alvin and dragons... into something centrally important. She brings together the history of the Barbaric Archipelago with the current events Hiccup’s experiencing around him. All Hiccup’s starting point experiences from the first books become formulative to the choices he has to make now. And all the while, there’s the stewing build-up of a central conflict... which explodes at the end of the second part.

The third part is all-out war. All-out drama. All-out danger. All-out stakes. We see how everything Cowell wrote is interconnected, from the start of the series to whatever conclusion Hiccup’s journey will bring. Moral themes and questions are central; characters are pushed into growth; what we thought was some random thing at the start turns out to be a cleverly-inserted Chekhov’s gun. It’s the payoff to all the set-up and build-up... brilliantly, effectively executed.

Obviously I can’t give examples to you. That would be spoilers. XD To people who’ve read the series, I’ll just say, for one example: all the King’s Things. That’s one example of Cowell’s build-up. But the build-up is everything from moral themes, to character dynamics, to foreshadowed historical revelations. It’s well-paced, well-thought through, well-executed.

The How to Train Your Dragon books are thus both simple and eloquent. And that which is simple isn’t “watered down” - it’s “simple” with purpose, “simple” with complexity, “simple” with personality, “simple” with power.

This is why I always encourage people to keep reading after the first few books. Some people find the starting adventures adorable, loving the charm and humor. I adore that all myself! They’re legitimately treasurable books in and of their own. Other readers aren’t as interested in the cutesie stuff, approaching the first HTTYD books with skepticism; they don’t think that these benign stories are “their thing.” However, every time I’ve encouraged skeptics to read after the first few books, they get sucked in, and find themselves screaming and crying and laughing and celebrating with Hiccup’s dynamic adventures. It’s all because Cowell’s simplicity is deceptive: there’s so much more going on, and there’s always more going on the deeper in you look.

#long post #httyd books #faq #httyd #How to Train Your Dragon #How to Ride a Dragon's Storm #analysis #my analysis #Cressida Cowell #ask #ask me #loveallcute

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gone4neow · 5 years

Text

The New King ♔ dks

Chapter Eleven

- kyungsoo x reader, royalty AU, prince!kyungsoo

- warnings : swearing, mature content, arranged marriage, good looking men

- word count : 2,576

chapter ten or chapter twelve or masterlist

♔ ♔ ♔ ♔ ♔

The princess watched Sehun from afar. He was sitting at a table in the garden with several people surrounding him. His father sat next to him with a prideful smile on his face as Sehun practiced negotiating with Jongin. In all honestly, Sehun was impressively good at negotiating. He was serious - yet he wasn't ashamed to crack a joke. He exuded charisma and because of this he seemed to win most of the negotiations. Jongin was certainly giving him a challenge, though. Sehun threw his head back as Jongin clapped. There was a victorious smile on the man's face as he cupped Sehun's shoulder excitedly. Sehun was good at negotiating, but Jongin was better.

"Look at them! They look like a council of nerds," Baekhyun spoke from beside the princess. She laughed as she glanced over at him. He was leaned back with his hands resting in the grass to hold himself up. He looked particularly handsome today. His suit was a deep slate color, pairing perfectly with his silver hair, and his skin held a newfound glow in it. She wondered what was so important about today.

"A council of idiots," Kyungsoo remarked from her other side. Like Baekhyun, he also seemed to be dressed fancier than he normally did. She wasn't complaining. Her eyes had drifted towards his figure several times since she had seen him this morning. Her fingers trembled slightly when she looked at him and her oxygen levels seemed to deplete. God, his existence is a gift, she thought to herself.

"Princess?" Baekhyun asked as he snapped his fingers in her face. She sat up straight as she looked at him. He chuckled as she drew in a deep breath.

"You have a bad habit of zoning out," he told her, as if she weren't already aware of this.

"You have a bad habit of being annoying," she retorted playfully. Of course, Baekhyun went on with his usual dramatics. She watched as he threw his hand over his heart and cried out like someone had just stabbed him deeply.

"You encourage him too much," Kyungsoo told her as he glanced at Baekhyun with a strange look on his face. She smiled softly at his words before she bumped her shoulder into his. Baekhyun eyed them suspiciously and bumped his own shoulder into the princess's.

"When did Kyungsoo become your favorite?" He asked, not even attempting to mask the jealousy that he felt.

"I don't have a favorite," The princess lied.

It was the biggest lie she had ever told, and she didn't even feel guilt when she found herself sitting behind Kyungsoo on the back of Striker later that day. Her arms were wrapped around his torso tightly as Striker galloped at a quick pace. They had snuck away from the castle after Sehun's negotiating practice had come to an end. They had left Sehun in charge of covering for their absence, which in hindsight was a bad idea. The stories Sehun came up with were embarrassing and would no doubt give Baekhyun enough comedic material to last for a month.

"Where to first?" Kyungsoo asked once they had arrived in the village. He had a mask on his face, and a nice little cap to accompany it. He had changed into causal clothes before they came to the village and had made sure that the princess did the same. They looked plain, hopefully plain enough to blend in with the villagers.

"I'm looking for a young man with nice hands that has an apron. Perhaps he will be near the print shop since he showed up in his work gear? I'm assuming he made a quick stop to pick up his package before he went right back to work," The princess thought aloud. Kyungsoo hummed as he thought about it. It made sense.

"We'll talk to the butcher first," he told her. They made their way through the busy streets of the village until they were met with the sight of the butcher's shop. Kyungsoo led the princess inside and they were greeted by a short, elderly woman. She looked at them with a tight lipped smile and nodded her head ever so slightly.

"Hello. Excuse me if I'm overstepping, but I was curious to know if there are any young men working here? He, um, is tall and has nice hands?" The princess was quiet as she spoke and she used her hands to help express herself. The woman stared at her with a blank expression for a moment before she shook her head. The princess glanced at the prince next to her before she thanked the woman and bid a goodbye. The prince led her back outside, where they decided to visit the artists' center next.

After about an hour of stopping by shops, the princess felt drained. All of her hope was slowly fading away. Kyungsoo suggested they visit the bakery next so that they could talk to Junmyeon. He wondered, momentarily, if Junmyeon was the man she had been instructed to find. He did work in the bakery, he was kind of tall, and his hands were okay. Actually, Kyungsoo didn't know what his hands looked like. He was caught up in his thoughts when he heard the princess sigh. He looked over at her and felt his heart break a little bit at the sadness swimming in her eyes.

"Grace, we will find him," he assured her. She met his eyes and nodded slightly, though she wasn't entirely convinced.

"Should we visit Xiumin?" She asked as she caught sight of the print shop behind Kyungsoo. He looked over his shoulder at the small shop before he shrugged. He wouldn't mind stepping in for a visit. He took her hand in his and pulled her inside. They were welcomed by the smell of paper, ink, and the familiar smile of Xiumin.

"Princess! You're back so soon," he spoke to her as the pair neared where he stood. She noticed there was a thin layer of sweat on his skin. He must've been in the back working moments before she arrived. She smiled softly at him before she nodded.

"Ah, Prince Kyungsoo, it's always good to see you," he greeted her love with a small bow. He uncovered his masked face and nodded at Xiumin before he began to ask his friend about a new type of ink that was displayed on the counter. The store's bell filled the princess's ear and she turned just in time to see Yixing slip inside the shop. He had on a cute hat and a satchel that stretched across the entirety of his chest before resting against his hip. His eyes caught hers and he froze.

"Princess," he spoke with surprise in his voice.

"Hello Yixing," She greeted quietly. He walked over towards her, his hands working together to open his satchel as he made his way over. She watched as he dug around inside the bag before he pulled out a handful of scrolls. He skimmed over the names written on the parchments until he found the one he had been looking for. A charming smile formed on his face as he handed the princess the parchment. She took it from him gently, thanking him as she did so. Kyungsoo looked at her with furrowed eyebrows.

"Who is it from?" He questioned.

"It doesn't say," she answered, glancing up at him as she spoke. She unrolled the scroll until she was faced with an unfamiliar handwriting. It was messy, big, and overall a little chaotic.

'We need to talk. It's about your father. Meet me at the river behind the mill on Thursday after the sun sets.'

She read the letter aloud to Kyungsoo, who observed her expression as she did so. The hope she had been losing throughout the day seemed to come back to her all at once. She looked up at the prince with wide eyes and a bright smile.

"He found me," she said in a breathless whisper. He smiled at her excitement. Xiumin asked what was going on and the princess explained her quest to find the mystery man. The prince and princess stayed in the print shop and talked with Xiumin for half an hour before the man politely announced that he needed to go back to work. The princess bid Yixing a goodbye before she slipped back out into the summer air with Kyungsoo close behind her.

"Are you ready to return home?" He asked her. She looked up at him with parted lips. Home? It was the first time he had referred to the castle as their home. She felt her skin warm at his words.

"Yes," she answered. He smiled down at her before he took her hand in his and guided her back to Striker.

The princess was a nervous wreck when Thursday arrived. She had woke up from a troublesome dream about her father and arrived at breakfast two shades lighter than she normally was. Her shaking hands had caught the attention of both of the princes, to which they attempted to comfort her by sharing some tea and sweet treats with her on the garden. She held a distance look in her eyes for most of the day. It worried not only the princes, but Bakehyun and Jongdae - who had joined them after dinner to feed the geese down by the river in front of the castle. Baekhyun has made a great effort to cheer her up, but all of his efforts proved to be futile.

She kept wondering what the mystery man was going to be like. Would he be kind to her? Would he be rude? Who was he and why did her father want her to find him? Her eyes glanced up at the sky to check the position of the sun every hour. The closer the time got for her to go meet the stranger was the more she found herself slipping away from reality. All she did was think, think, and think so more. Kyungsoo finally grew exhausted from watching the princess drive herself insane with thoughts and he secretly led her away from the group. She followed him blindly, and wasn't surprised when he pulled her into the vacant library.

Kyungsoo let go of the princess's hand and made his way over to the chairs. She watched as he lifted the cushion of the seat up to reveal a hidden storage compartment. He removed a blanket and a pillow from the space, holding it up to show her with a small smile. For the first time that day, she found herself genuinely smiling. Just what was the prince up to? He guided her to a corner in the back of the library before he laid the blanket out on the floor, throwing the pillow down carelessly once he was satisfied with the positioning of the blanket.

"Give me a minute," he told the princess as he held a finger up. His eyes locked with hers for a split second before he was disappearing to another part of the library. She sat on the blanket and waited for his return - which came only moments after she had gotten settled on the floor. He held an unfamiliar book in his hand. She kept her eyes locked on him as he returned, feeling her heartbeat quicken as he climbed on top of the blanket and got comfortable beside her. She didn't hesitate to let her arms wrap around his torso. Kyungsoo smiled softly at the action and gently grabbed at her legs, bringing them to rest in his lap.

The prince began to read out loud after that. His voice was as soothing as it always was. It was deep and velvety, so inviting that it was almost dangerous. The princess found herself leaning her head against his chest, reading the words on the worn pages of the book as he read them out loud for her. Slowly, she found herself calming down. No longer did her hands tremble with anticipation. Her breathing was not shaky and her heartbeat was steady. All thoughts of the mystery man had vanished from her mind. She was focused on Kyungsoo's heartbeat and the words rolling from his tongue. The moment was special to the princess and she found herself wanting to do it again and again.

She almost cried out in protest when Kyungsoo stopped reading. She watched quietly as he pulled a pocket watch from the pocket of his trousers. The princess didn't want to know what time it was. Seconds before, time hadn't even existed. She had been so excited to meet the stranger days before, but now she wished her father had never mentioned him.

"Grace, I think we should make our way to the village," The prince told her quietly. She raised up and turned her head so that she could meet the stare of his big eyes. Mischief was swimming in the pools of her irises and the prince did not miss it.

"Can't we stay here instead?" She asked in a hushed whisper as her hand moved to rest at the crook of his neck. Her eyes flickered from his eyes to his lips and the prince found it hard to not be distracted from the topic at hand.

"You want to avoid meeting the man? Why?" He asked her calmly, despite the waves of anticipation he felt. The small, suggestive smirk on the princess's face fell. Why had she fallen for an observant man? Couldn't she had fell in love with an ignorant man? She drew in a deep breath, trying to find the words to convey the feelings she had about the meeting that would take place that evening.

"Are you afraid of what meeting him will reveal?" Kyungsoo questioned. She nodded and her lips parted in amazement. She was so glad she had fell for an observant man. He hummed at her gesture and soon after, his hand found hers. He played with her fingers as he stared at her. She wondered if he was waiting for her to speak, but the prince had just wanted to observe her for a moment.

"This man... was obviously important to your father. Your father wouldn't want you to find him if he didn't expect this man to be important to you, too. It's okay to be afraid, but don't let your fear prevent you from meeting the man. He's probably as nervous as you are," Kyungsoo spoke to her softly. She was envious of the way he was able to speak so well. A small smile formed on her face. She took his hand in hers and stopped him from fiddling with her fingers any longer.

"I'm so lucky to have such a handsome, intelligent man like you," she told him. His cheeks instantly lit up with a bright pink color. He would never get used to being spoken to like this. It was new, and though he'd never admit it to anyone, he liked it. It made him feel loved. As if the princess knew he wouldn't know how to respond, she leaned forward and pressed a quick peck against his lips. She pulled away in a rush and patted Kyungsoo's thighs before she stood up. He watched as she held a hand out for him to take and he allowed her to help him up from the floor.

a/n : i have a confession... yixing’s character in this story might just be my favorite. idk there’s just something about him. i hope you all are still enjoying the story! thank you for reading <3

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lostinfic · 6 years

Note

Treat, please. Will x Holly. "You're wearing my sweater." + Game Night.

Game Night. 1 / 2

Pairing: Will Burton (The Escape Artist) x Holly Shawcross(True Love)

Rating:Teen

Word count: 1.5k

Summary: Will and Holly are part of a group of friends whomeet every week to play board games. Although there is more than friendship growing between them, their pasts prevent them from acting on their feelings.

A/N: I also wrote a fem!Will x Holly version of thisprompt: Sweater Weather

Some details might escape you if you haven’t seen the shows, but I think you can still enjoy the story.

○ Trick or treat prompts

○ All my autumn fics

Available on Ao3

🍂

“You don’t have to do that,” Will said as Holly washed the glasses used by their friends.

“It’s no bother.”

He cleared the table and threw away empty bags of crisps and pretzels.

“How was your week?”

She interpreted his question as a sign that he didn’t mind her staying after the others had left.

Holly worked part time at an immigration center, teaching English to newcomers. As Will wiped crumbs off the table, she told him about a teenage Somalian refugee who drew comic strips of his journey to England. She’d put him in contact with a gallery where she’d once exhibited her own work.

“Did you paint anything new this week?” Will asked.

“Yeah. Christmas cards. I need to stock up my online shop in time for Cyber Monday.”

“But you loved painting Autumn stuff.”

“I know, I really did.” She pouted.

She washed another glass, and Will sided up to her with a towel to dry it.

“I nearly drank my paint water again this week.”

“I told you to stop using that mug.” He bumped her with his shoulder.

“But I love it!” She bumped him back with her hip.

He shook his head fondly.

She asked about his own week, she remembered he had a meeting with a new client yesterday. He lost his smile.

“The man’s a serial drunk driver and he’s killed someone because of it, and I swear his breath smelled of gin when we met.”

“Jesus. Did he drive to the appointment?”

“Thank God, no. His solicitor got him to start the 12-Step Program.”

“That’s good. There’s hope.”

He nodded, his lips in a tight smile.

“You must think I’m naive,” Holly said.

“No, no, but he’s probably only doing it to get a reduced sentence.” Belatedly, he added, “But I think it’s great that you still have faith in people.”

“I have to. Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He had seen too much in his career. That lost puppy look in his eyes tugged at her heartstrings.

She had to believe people could make amends and change, otherwise there was no hope for her after what she’d done. And what he’d done.

She wondered if he knew that she’d slept with one of her students, the way she knew he’d killed his wife’s murderer, by unearthing five-year old headlines on Google. They’d both moved elsewhere, to Cambridge, to put it all behind, so she never brought up the subject, never asked him if he really did it. Who they were now was all that mattered.

“I think some people can become better persons,” he finally admitted.

She touched his arm lightly, a shy show of support, and he surprised her by putting his hand over hers. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, and her arm goose-pimpled from the contact.

She loved these moments, when it was just the two of them and they talked about more personal things, unlike when the others were around.

Will and Holly were part of a group of eight friends who played board games every week. Lately, when the game was at Will’s, she made sure to arrive a little early and found some excuse to stay after the others had left.

Will had joined the group six months ago (one of their members had a baby and couldn’t come to their weekly games anymore so he introduced Will as his replacement). Maybe it was a professional quirk, Holly was a teacher after all, but she immediately took him under her wing, explaining the rules and the inside jokes, and going out of her way to include him in the group. She was only being nice, but somewhere along the way being nice turned into being infatuated.

Jamie’s arrival from his football practice interrupted their moment. They jumped apart and quickly finished cleaning up the kitchen.

Will saw her to the door. The temperature had dropped significantly, and Holly was only wearing a thin raincoat.

“It’s alright,” she said, “the bus stop’s only two blocks away.”

“I don’t want you to catch something, I need you to win the next game. Here.” He removed his grey jumper and offered it to her.

Holly walked to the bus stop with her nose under the collar. Unlike her who shopped at charity shops, Will had the means to buy high quality clothes and this jumper was no exception, a blend of cashmere and wool as far as she could tell. She rubbed her cheek against it. His cologne lingered between the stitches, warm and woodsy, and with the smell of rain in the air, it reminded her of the forest in autumn.

She wore his sweater all week. It kept her warm when she painted or read with the windows open. She became so used to it that she still had it on when they met at Patrick’s house for the next game night. Will didn’t notice however. Even if it was half past seven, he’d obviously come straight from court and his brain was still occupied by work. His hair was messy as if he’d tugged on it.

He sat down next to her without a salutation, and pulled a pre-packaged cheese sandwich and a green apple out of his coat pockets.

Every other week, they played Dungeons & Dragons. Patrick— a stocky, dark-skinned accountant who’d initiated the game nights with his sister Sabrina— recapped their latest quest. Everyone organized their dice, figurines and character sheets on the dining room table. Everyone except Will who was munching absentmindedly on his stale sandwich.

“Will?” Patrick repeated.

He blinked out of his thoughts and looked around as if he’d forgotten where he was. “Uh?”

“That weapon you found at the cave, was it a knife or a sword?”

“In the game,” Jasna, another player, specified.

“Yeah, sorry, erm…” He looked through his notes and answered them.

“Long day?” Holly whispered to him.

“Aye.”

“Relax.” She leaned well into his personal space and loosened his tie.

He didn’t say a word, only turned his torso towards her, offering better access. She hadn’t planned on taking it all off, but now her fingers worked at the knot. The silky material glided under his collar and wrapped around her fist.

“You’re free from work now.”

As he took his tie from her hands, his fingers deliberately brushed against hers.

“Are you wearing my jumper?”

“Have been since I got here.” She chuckled. “Sorry, I’ll give it back to you.”

“There’s no rush.”

Holly’s character was a Wizard and Will’s a Rogue. Because they always sat next to each other, they often separated from the rest of the gang to conduct their own mission. They made a good team. Will was a great strategist, always a step ahead of everyone, even the Dungeon Master. He would lean towards Holly, and whisper to her their next move. Her own strength was thinking outside the box, using her character’s spells in creative ways.

“Holly, you can’t use the Glyph of Warding that way,” Patrick said.

Will put on his glasses and looked through the Player’s Handbook. “Objection.”

Patrick groaned.

Will recited the description of the spell, “You inscribe a glyph that harms other creatures, either upon a surface or within an object that can be closed to conceal the glyph. Did you not say just 10 minutes ago that Mordenkainen closed the portal? Accordingly…”

“Why are you always defending her and not us?” Sabrina asked.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Holly’s weakness. It’s why she’d had an affair with a married man, an underage student and an older woman who called her her Muse. If they made her feel just a little special… But he was a widower, a single father and a workaholic, but she could feel it, like the pull of the undercurrent before a big wave. She was wary of that pull now— three years of therapy had taught her that at least—, but the more she resisted it, the more delicious it was. And really, it didn’t help that he wore such tight jeans.

Sometimes, she drew their D&D characters together.

“Holly, here’s what I’ll do, if Modenkainen is still in this plane, you can use the glyph on his portal.” Patrick rolled a pair of twenty-side die. “And you got it. Damn it.”

Holly and Will high-fived.

The game continued as they ate junk food, drank cider and generally drove Patrick crazy with their antics. “You can’t drug the elves to get in the castle!”

“What was the point of going all the way to Yesterhill to get these pastries, then?”

“I didn’t make you go there. By the way, Jerome, did you hide your tail?”

“Yeah, I shoved it up me arsehole.”

The whole table burst out laughing.

By the end of the night, they’d reigned in their hilarity enough to defeat a dragon and a horde of banshees.

“Same time next week,” Jasna said as she put on her coat. “It will be Halloween, so you’d all better dress up. Just kidding.”

Much to Holly’s surprise, Will offered her a ride home even though her flat wasn’t on his way.

Street lights glistened on the rain-sleek pavement and the wind carried dead leaves across the road. The full moon shone a warm, benevolent yellow over the river Cam.

Although they were silent, the car was brimming with some kind of energy. Will nearly missed a red light even if his eyes were trained on the road, Holly kept squirming on her seat, and they repeatedly snuck glances at each other. He missed the exit for her neighborhood, and they had to drive a while longer. She didn’t mind. She wanted him to keep driving. All night. Anywhere, out of town. They’d talk of nothing and everything.

He stopped in front of her building and killed the engine. She unbuckled her seat belt but didn’t leave the car. She didn’t want to have to wait a whole week before seeing him again.

“So…” he said.

“We’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Not at all. Oh! I have something for you.”

He reached for something on the back seat and handed her a paper bag. She unwrapped a set of mugs labelled “paint water” and “not paint water”.

“I saw them in a craft store window. Thought of you.” He tugged on his earlobe, watching her reaction. “Do you like them?”

Holly didn’t know what to say. It made her so happy that he’d thought of her. She cradled the mugs to her chest and nodded. She remembered something Karen had once said, that she wanted someone who would love “all her nerdy little things”. Holly had found that someone.

She tentatively leaned over the gear stick to kiss his cheek, but he turned his head at the same time and her lips landed right on the corner of his mouth. They both laughed nervously.

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“I should give you back your jumper.”

She took off her scarf and raincoat. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach when she gripped the hem of the sweater; she caught the hem of her tank top as well and pulled it all up over her head.

Will’s eyes widened when he saw her bra. Her chest heaved with quick breaths.

“Holly…” He swallowed thickly. “You’ll get cold.”

And she did, for his rejection was like a bucket of iced water to the face.

“Right.” She hastily put her raincoat back on and rushed outside the car with a mumbled goodbye.

Part 2

#lots-o-huggindoctor #meanwhileinpetesworld #Teninch fic #Will x Holly #Lostinfic writes stuff #autumn prompts #fluff and angst #I guess they're both geeks #because they're playing Dungeons & Dragons #game night fic

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